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Nodding as though coming to a decision, he reached for the edge of the fur and tugged it down my body, his voice low and deep. “But we can try to get on.”

I released a ragged breath of relief, hoping that was true, giddy at the prospect of what that might mean for us.

We can try to get on.

Maybe we could manage a proper marriage despite our rough start. Maybe.

“Now,” he added gruffly, sliding down the length of my body to the end of the bed. “Let me see if the witch’s salve is really the miracle you claim.”

“Oh,” I said breathlessly. “You don’t need to—”

“Don’t be nervous. We’ve already been through this.”

An irrational little laugh bubbled up inside me, but I stifled it.We’ve already been through this.

Had we, though? Been throughthis? It had been different before. I’d been out of my head beside that stream and hurting and desperate for help. I would have lifted my skirts and let anyone examine me if they promised to ease my pain. I thought of Thora and winced. Case in point.

Pain was the last thing I felt, though, as I settled back onto the furs. I gulped as his hands went to my hem, flipping it up. Despite my lack of conviction, I told myself this was like before. A dispassionate inspection. It should be far less embarrassing the second time around.

I told myself that, but still felt my face catch fire as he parted my knees. Air hit my exposed body. The breath hissed past my lips, and too late I realized that this wasnotlike before. I was feeling too many things and none of them pain.

His fingers trailed over my knees, skimming the tops of my thighs, and I bit my lip, fighting to stay silent even when I felt the press of his big hands, the warmth of his palms, the singeing X where my blood had joined with his. That brand swept a burning path up my leg.

My arms stretched above my head, hands clenching into fists to stop myself from touching the endless breadth of shoulders below me. That would make this something more than an impersonal examination, and I needed to keep matters as detached as possible.

He’s just checking on me to see if I’m fit to ride.

“Your skin...” His fingers brushed the inside of one thigh, and I trembled from head to toe in a full-body shudder.

I peered down at him. “Am I... better?”

“Perfect,” he replied, looking up at me, and my chest constricted at the hot, angry flash in his eyes... at the husky scratch of his voice. Why should he look so angry? So... accusatory?

I waited, expecting him to lower my hem now that he’d looked his fill.

But that didn’t happen.

He wasn’t done.

His fingers grazed me, inching up and up...

“The redness is gone... and the blisters, too,” he marveled, staring fixedly between my legs.

I murmured something unintelligible that swung into a gasp when I felt the slow swipe of his fingers down my sex.

His gaze shot to my face. “Does that hurt?”

“N-no. You just startled me.”

His breathing reached my ears, a rough, erratic rhythm. “Your poor little quim. It was so abused earlier. Red and chafed raw. Now it’s a pretty pink.”

My head dropped back, and I flung my arm over my eyes, feeling those words as though they were something visceral. As potent as his touch. I shifted, rotating my hips in an embarrassing way, seeking another stroke of his fingers against my suddenly aching core.

The flat of his hand on my thigh opened me wider, and I obliged, offering myself to his questing touch, gasping as he traced my cleft and eased one finger inside me.

“Does this hurt?” he asked, and his voice sounded strange to my ears. Lower. Deeper. Almost likehewas in pain.

“N-no,” I panted.