Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Idon’t intend to return, but not more than an hour later, under a glaring silver moon, I do.
Stormblades raise their brows at my second coming, but the signet I almost throw at them has them letting me through.
I slam the cottage door behind me and lean against it, catching my breath.
Quin looks over from his chessboard this time, and I’m glad to see not only a flicker of surprise, but the swift rise to his feet. My satisfaction at this is short lived. He buckles, catching himself on the table. Chess pieces scatter; I feel each one hit the floor like a pulse of pain.
The pain Quin is trying to suppress.
He grunts.
I fly across the room on a clenched stomach. He’s overdone it—his leg has borne the brunt of too much. They’d blocked his magic at Mount Lysippos, who knows what the stormblades forced him to do since then. What he forces himself to do.
Like rising at my sudden entry.
“Hold on.” I’ve grabbed him by the upper arms and am steering him to the bed. He falls onto it, palming his forehead and gritting his teeth.
I yank at his leggings, pulling them off swiftly. Smooth corded muscles rise from his calves to his knees to his hips. Though it’s not visible, I know exactly where the poison is attacking his nerves. I’ve had my magic inside him before.
His thighs flex at my fingers running down the inside of his leg. His only sound is a stifled gasp.
I massage into the pain, pressing on the points around it. I’ve climbed between his legs and my veil has swept forward, a curtain around me and Quin’s pained leg. The tension in his body starts to loosen as I continue to massage. Goosebumps form where my veil tickles him.
I’m not done yet.
I shuffle, dragging my fingers down over his tight muscles to his ankle, and grab his foot.
I reach for the bag I flung at the end of the bed and pull out my needles. “This’ll help. Keep still.”
I push the thin needles into the acupoints that’ll give him the most relief.
Finally, when it’s done and I’ve pulled out the needles and returned them to my case, I let go of the knot in my stomach, and a small sigh slips out of me.
His voice pulls me out of my relief and into the reality of the moment. Me on my knees, his foot on my lap pinched between my fingers, his naked legs rising to his undergarments and the hem of his shirt.
I yank my gaze up past this. Quin’s head is angled from the pillow, giving him a perfect view of the scene.
I let go of his foot.
His dark eyes are fixed on me through a loose lock of his hair. His chest rises on a deep breath and the quiet way he releases it has me jumping off the bed.
“Halt.”
At his whispered command, I do.
I hear him shift behind me. “How did you know where to massage? Where did you learn to use acupoints in the feet to alleviate pain?”
I ball a handful of my cloak. “A-any good healer would know to do that.”
Barely audible, he murmurs, “Turn around.”
With dark, saddened eyes, he looks at me for a long time, and despite the veil, I tuck my chin.
Say something. Every moment you don’t, it’s harder to breathe.
“You’re right,” Quin finally says. “A good healer would know.”
I want to rush away, but I came here for a reason and, frustratingly, can’t leave yet despite the pounding in my heart. “I wish I had wine.”
Quin’s eyebrow quirks.
“Additional help against your pain,” I lie, with a self-chastising grimace.
Quin eyes me again, too softly, and then abruptly he shifts his legs off the side of the bed.
I lurch to stop him standing, but he hadn’t intended to, and I step back.
He waits a beat before he gestures.
I follow his outstretched hand to the meditation cushion. Curiously kneel beside and look under—
I shoot a look at Quin, now smiling smugly, and lift the latch in the floorboard . . . A treasure trove of wax-sealed wine bottles. I take out two. “Guess meditation gets boring.”
Quin’s lips curve slightly, but his eyes remain serious. “Thank the gods,” he murmurs.
I snicker, close the floorboard with my knee, and hand Quin one of the bottles. “No more than a quarter for you,” I say as I push the meditation cushion to the wall and lean against it. “Make it a sixth.”
“And you?”
I break the seal and gulp the cherry-flavoured wine beneath the veil. Quin leans against the bedpost and sips alongside me. When I glance over, he must somehow feel my eyes on him because his seem to deepen.
Just get through a couple of hours without being found out.
“Why did you come in here like you were being chased?”