Sandy Williams - The Sharpest Blade

What? I give him a skeptical look.

“I told you many of the Taelith ’s elari are from Lyechaban,” he says. “He has to appease them, give them a good show so they think he hates humans as much as they do. But when he ordered me to destroy everything Earth-made that I’ve brought to the Realm, I very politely told him he could go rot in the Barren. Apparently, he took offense at that.”

“How surprising,” Lena’s flat voice comes from behind me. Sosch hops off my lap when I turn and see her standing just inside the sunroom.

“I assure you,” Lorn says, “I was quite surprised. If I’d known he planned to—”

“You would have still made a deal with him,” Lena cuts him off. “I’ve known you a long time, Lorn. Your insistence on putting a price on everything is the reason you’re here. You strike bargains with everyone you meet, manipulating as much of an advantage as you can from them. You gamble on every rumor, every shred of information you learn, and it has caught up with you.”

In short, his shady dealings have finally bit him in the ass.

“My dear,” Lorn says, lounging back in his wicker chair. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Let’s see if this fits.” She strides into the room. “You met the false-blood months, perhaps even years, ago. You provided him weapons and silver and information. He provided you with tinril . Everything went smoothly for a time, then the Taelith returned, this time asking you for something you weren’t willing to give.”

“Your cows,” I put in.

“You weren’t able to charm your way out of business with him, and since you weren’t cooperative, he tried to send you to the ether.”

All signs of amusement have disappeared from Lorn’s face, so I’m guessing Lena’s summary is close to the truth.

She faces me, almost completely turning her back on Lorn. “Paige?”

“I called her a little while ago,” I say. “She didn’t answer. I left her a message to have her phone in her hand at noon tomorrow. I’ll try her again then.”

She looks annoyed by the delay, but she doesn’t voice her thoughts out loud. She turns back to Lorn, then she demands he tell her every detail of every meeting he’s ever had with Caelar and the false-blood. She’s confident I can get Paige to make a meeting between her and Caelar happen. I’m less so, but she calls in Aren and Kyol, insisting we come up with a strategy for gaining his allegiance, whether he’s now allied with the false-blood or not. By the time we call it a night, my muscles have almost completely locked up on me, and I’m agitated by everything. I head to the media room, taking with me the sleepshirt, pillow, and blanket Kynlee left out for me.

I’m dead tired, so I strip to my undies, then, groaning when I force my stiff arm muscles to move, I slip Kynlee’s sleepshirt on over my head. She’s smaller than I am—it barely covers my ass—but I’m anxious to get out of my bloodstained cargo pants and T-shirt. I’m going to have to arrange some kind of clothing allowance; I think I’ve ruined half my wardrobe in the week since I returned to the Realm.

I toss the pillow Kynlee gave me onto the end of the couch, then pick up the blanket.

“I’ve been ordered to heal you.”

Aren’s voice startles me. I look over my shoulder and see him standing in the doorway, his edarratae bright and captivating in the dim lighting. Haphazard and sexy, that’s how I’d describe him, and I want so badly for him to be here because he chooses to see me, not because he’s been ordered to.

“I’m fine,” I say, turning back to the couch and unfurling the blanket.

“Taltrayn mentioned blisters and bruises.”

“You don’t want to be here, Aren.”

“He outranks me,” he says. “And he’ll know if I don’t heal you.”

“He’ll get over it.” I start to sit on the couch, but Aren crosses the room and grabs an end of the blanket. I try to jerk it free, but he doesn’t release it, and that makes the material slide across my sensitive palms. I hiss as I let the blanket go.

“Just give me your hands.” He grabs them, turning my palms up, and when he presses his fingers against the raw skin, my mind flashes back to two months ago. I’d just slid down a rope made from sheets, and he insisted on healing my damaged skin. I resented his touch then, the hot lick of his chaos lusters that made me want to lean into him. I resent it now, too. If he doesn’t want me as much as I want him, then I don’t want to feel this way. I don’t want to think of the warmth of his mouth, the kiss of his edarratae , or the subtle but drugging scent of cedar and cinnamon that makes me want to melt in his arms.

I clench my teeth together and stare at his chest because I refuse to get lost in his eyes.

My palms mend quickly, but Aren doesn’t move away. He slides both his hands up my arms, finds the bruises on my right wrist and the ugly one just hidden under my left sleeve. A pleasant burn runs through me.

God, I want him.

I thought Aren’s chest would be a safe place to stare. It isn’t. It’s rising and falling with his breaths, and all I want to do is slide my hands up his body. I want to kiss his neck and linger until his chaos lusters pool beneath my lips.

He drags himself back a step, and, finally, I look up. He quickly looks down, tilting his head slightly then—

“ Sidhe , McKenzie.” He drops to his knees in front of me, his palm pressing against my right calf.

“Ow!” I say, kicking his hand away.

He grabs my leg again, this time flaring his magic. “He’s supposed to protect you, not injure you.”

“He’s teaching me to protect myself.”

“Which will be hard to do if you can’t walk or hold a sword.”

“Careful,” I say. “You almost sound like you care.”

He peers up at me. “I never said I didn’t care.”

I cross my arms, look away, and stand rigidly, waiting while he heals me. When he’s finished with my calf, he starts to rise, but then he spots another injury: the deep bruise on my upper, outer thigh. Slowly, he slides his hand up my leg. The lower hem of my sleepshirt lifts slightly as he places his hand over the bruise. His palm is hot. I’m hot.

“Please tell me this is the last one,” he murmurs, his hand easing upward a fraction of an inch.

“There’s another,” I say quietly. “It’s higher on my left side.”

Slowly, he rises. He looks almost afraid when he meets my gaze. “How much higher?”

“Upper ribs.”

He draws in a breath as if he’s steeling himself, then he lifts my sleepshirt. It slowly, softly slides up over my hips and stomach. His hands are level with my breasts. He should be able to see the bruise now, but his silver eyes never leave mine.

A heartbeat passes. Two. Then three. He lifts the sleepshirt over my head, then his hungry gaze rakes over me. My body thrums as if it’s wrapped in edarratae .

“Sidhe,” he breathes out. “You’re . . .”

He closes his eyes, shaking his head as if he can get the image of me out of his mind. That’s the last thing I want.

I grab his hand, slide it down my body until it rests over the deep bruise on my side.

His eyes open. He nods as if I’ve asked him a question, then he pulls his hand free from mine.

He drops to a knee again then focuses intently on my injury. He places his palm against it. Then I feel him shake.

Before I can ask him if he’s okay, he slides his hand around to my back and presses his mouth against the bruise.

His magic flares and, holy hell, my legs nearly buckle. I have to lock my knees to stay upright.

He moves his lips, sending his healing magic into the upper part of my injury. I’m dying to fist my hands in his hair, but I settle for his shoulders, afraid of pushing him too far, too fast. I can feel how tightly he’s coiled. He’s holding himself back, giving himself the smallest taste of me.