Master of Iron (Bladesmith #2)(48)

There’s some sort of victory in having a kiss returned. Knowing that it was wanted. That it was accepted. That I’m accepted.

Unless of course he’s just humoring me. Oh, I really hope he’s not doing that.

But he’s the one who deepens the kiss, not me.

He pushes his tongue between my lips and pulls me flush against him. I bite at his lips, taste as much of him as I can, thread my fingers in his hair so I can weld our mouths together.

I used to think that once I’d been kissed for the first time, I would just be part of some select group of people who know. Some experience that once you have, you just know what to expect every time. Like cutting your hair.

But there are different kinds of kisses. Some are achingly soft. Some are deep and searching. And some are so powerful they almost knock me onto my knees.

Kellyn traces my upper lip with his tongue before sucking the lower into his mouth. His lips trail down my throat, each kiss harder than the last. When he finds that spot I like, he lingers, drawing an ache out of me that I feel low in my belly.

Soon I’m the one with ragged breathing, and that thought reminds me of my purpose. I slowly remove my hands from his hair. I angle my head so I can see the arrow shaft, and then I dig in my fingers.

He pulls back with a violent gasp, biting my neck inadvertently, but I don’t let up on the pressure until the white liquid turns to blood.

“There!” I say triumphantly.

Kellyn slumps to the side, losing consciousness, and I wrap the wound while he’s out, comforting myself with the knowledge that at least he can’t feel any more pain.

We kissed so many times while we were staying with his parents, back before Temra got hurt. So many kisses that I couldn’t recall the details of every single one anymore. But I’m going to remember that one forever.



* * *



The days progress, and Kellyn doesn’t improve. His arm only gets more infected the longer we travel, and soon, lancing the wound does nothing to help. He grows feverish, and by the time our southern trek through the woods finally meets the main road, he’s grown too weak to be of any use. He rides the horse whenever we travel at my insistence, but soon he becomes too sick to sit atop it by himself.

It’s like with Temra all over again, taking the same road to help. Only this time I at least know Serutha will be able to help. Unless Skiro sent her somewhere for some task.

He wouldn’t do that. He just got her back.

He can’t have done that.

Kellyn groans and mumbles incoherently while we travel, and I find myself missing my sister immeasurably. She would know what to say to help me calm my thoughts. To help me focus on the positive and not let my thoughts spiral out of control. She would point out all the good things. I do my best without her.

That evening, I use cold water from the stream to wet a rag and dab at Kellyn’s forehead. I’ve never seen him like this before.

Helpless. Rendered useless by a measly arrow.

“You’re not going to die,” I tell him. “Not on my watch. We need to think about positive things. Like, we’re not dead. Petrik made it out. We know he’s at least safe. And Serutha is free.”

But Temra could still be dead.

Positive, Ziva!

“Because we escaped, we can warn Skiro about the invading army. We got your sword back. I’m mostly uninjured, so I can get us safely to the capital. We’re just days away now.”

If only the woods had spat us out before the trail to Amanor. I could have taken him to the healer there. It would have been closer. And then I could leave him with his family.

But Serutha will do a better job fixing him up. He only has to make it.

What if he can’t last a few more days?

Again, positive, Ziva!

“We have plenty of food to eat and water to drink. We have a horse. Can you imagine if I had to drag you all this way with my own strength?”

I’m strong, but I’m not that strong.

“We’re going to make it,” I say again. But Kellyn doesn’t acknowledge a thing I say.



* * *



When we approach the bridge over the river, I recognize where we are instantly.

Especially with the hacked-down tree covering the whole thing.

A crew of bandits runs up from the slope to the river.

“Good evening, friends,” the bandit leader—what was his name?—says. He must have found new men to replace the ones we killed, because he’s toting a full gang.

“Devran,” I say as the name comes to me, and an edge of warning enters my voice.

“How do you—” he starts, and then his eyes go wide. “You!” he shrieks, taking a few steps away from me. “Didn’t you just come through here? What are you doing back?”

“I really haven’t got time for this.” Not that I had any time when we first met, either. “Move this tree out of my way, or I will kill all your men a second time!” Then I realize how that sounds. “Not the same men, obviously. I’ll kill the new men. I’ll kill lots of different men like I did before!”

Sometimes I think I’m getting braver at speaking out, but then I go and make a fool of myself.

“Of course!” Devran says, and he makes a motion with his hand. “Move the tree, lads!”

“But we haven’t been paid yet,” one of the smaller ruffians says.