A Dawn of Onyx (The Sacred Stones, #1)(81)

But he knew.

“I want to share everything, Arwen… but it would only bring you more suffering.”

I pried one eye open to look at him, but he was staring out the window at the sun as it slipped behind the woods below us.

“I’m stronger than you think.”

“No, bird. You’re stronger than any of us. It is only you who doesn’t think so.”

***

The clumsy giants were back, but this time they had brought friends who also lacked rhythm. I rubbed at my temples and tried to swallow, my mouth feeling like cotton. But my vision and thoughts were clear—the fever had finally passed.

I sat up and stretched. Every joint in my body, from my fingers to my neck, popped and cracked with relief.

And I was starving.

I slipped out of the bed, my bare feet on the cool, wood floor, and assessed the room that smelled so brightly of lilies. So these were Kane’s private quarters. They were more colorful than I had expected. Whimsical blue throws and sultry violet curtains popped against the dark wood floors, stone walls, and cluttered shelves. Stacks of the historical books he had told me about framed his bedside. It was so lived in, so masculine. Not at all cold or sterile as I had once imagined.

The balcony doors were open and I stepped outside, soaking in the fresh air and summer sunshine like a wilted flower after a storm. I stretched my arms high above my head, and the breeze grazed over my thighs and bottom.

Oh, right. No pants.

I went back inside for them, but my leathers were so stiff and caked in dirt, blood, and pond water I couldn’t bear to slide them on.

Behind the four-poster bed was a closet filled with mostly black, kingly attire. In the far corner was a full-length mirror. I prepared myself for the worst and approached.

In some ways, it wasn’t as bad as I expected. My legs were mostly fine, minus a few scrapes and bruises. I was grateful to be in undergarments that covered my ass and most of my stomach. Kane’s large, black tunic fit me more like a dress, and I heaved a sigh of relief. One point scored for modesty.

In other ways, it was really, very bad.

My face looked horrific. Like a deranged swamp witch. My eyes lacked their usual olive color, I was too pale, and my lips were cracked. The stitches on my cheek cut across me like tracks, and my lower lip was still bruised from the night of the explosion. Even my wrist, despite the wrappings, was purple and swollen.

I held my palm to my cheek and breathed deeply, feeling the welcome sting of my skin lacing itself together again and pushing the stitches out of my face. I was still so weak—but I had enough left to make a slight dent in the healing process. Within a couple of days, it would barely be noticeable. But that wasn’t the worst of it.

It was time to see the real damage.

The buttons of Kane’s tunic were easy to undo, but I was terrified to look at my reflection. I wasn’t necessarily a vain person, but I knew whatever injury I had sustained from the wolfbeast would be with me for life.

Peeling back the bandages revealed a large gash that ripped me from my collarbone to the top of my breast. The healers had stitched it up beautifully, I would have to thank them somehow.

For the first time, I had someone actually tend to me after I had been injured. It was a strange comfort, to not have been alone, healing my wounds.

But in looking at the stitches, an image of the white of my own collarbone flashed in my mind, and I gripped the ornate armoire to steady myself. I wasn’t squeamish; my professional assessment was that the dizzy spell was more likely due to dehydration. I made my way back into the bedroom and found Kane setting a breakfast tray on the bed for me.

“You’re up,” he said, eyes following my bare legs. A grin tugged at my lips. His shameless ogling felt like a sign that I was no longer his patient. I self-consciously patted my wild hair.

“I am,” I said. “What’s this?”

I climbed into bed and tucked a rebellious lock behind my ear. Fine, I wanted to look nice for him. Maybe hours of fevered, sweaty, bloodied Arwen could be erased by a decent comb.

“This is breakfast. How’s the wound?”

“It’s uncomfortable,” I admitted. “But better than I expected given the fever. I don’t want to know what kind of venom was in the beast’s claws. Thank you, Kane. For everything.”

He only nodded.

The food before me was mouthwatering. Three boiled eggs, two loaves of cloverbread with a dollop of honeyed butter, a sliced apple, and some grilled pork. I practically drooled.

And, candidly, it wasn’t the only mouthwatering part of breakfast. Kane looked downright delectable. His shirt was unbuttoned, exposing a slight dusting of dark, curled chest hair. His black locks were swept away from his face, and slight stubble sprinkled his face. I hadn’t ever seen him with facial hair before. I resisted the all-consuming urge to cup his jaw in my hand.

“You have a beard,” I said, around a mouthful of apple.

He cocked his head and joined me on the bed, resting his hand on my forehead.

I laughed and covered my mouth. “Not the fever talking. Just a lack of filter.” A horrific thought dawned on me as I wondered what humiliating things I must have said while sick. As if he could read my mind, Kane’s lips curved in a mischievous smile. I raised an eyebrow in question.

“Oh, you don’t even want to know,” he purred.

“Stop that. You’re lying.” I was going for outrage, but his charm had turned my admonishment into flirting. Damn him.