Page 43

When we weren’t panting so badly, and the bear was long behind us, we righted ourselves, nearly having floated into the rocky shore on the other side. Roan reached for his oar and found his seat, cussing his knee up and down the whole time. I moved to do the same, only I struggled to hold the oar in my injured hand. The end of it dug into my palm and my wrist flared in pain when I tried to lever the paddle through the water. I switched it between my hands, but the results were no better. I fumbled and hissed through my teeth as I bled on to the wood.

“What is it?” Roan asked from behind me.

Damn.

“I—it’s my—I can’t—”

Oh, for the love of Toke. I was hurt, but I couldn’t spit it out. My face went hot.

Roan got us to the center of the channel, the current pulling our small vessel along, and I heard him put down his oar. When I glanced back, he was crouched low and making his way up to me, a furrow in his brow that betrayed his worry.

“I’m fine,” I choked out, swinging my legs around to face backwards.

“Where does it hurt?”

I gestured to the wretched thing. The cut was obvious, so I said, “The wrist, too.”

He drew in a long breath and then whistled.

“Have you ever had stitches before?”

I blanched. I was about to answer that, no, I’d never had stitches and never intended to either, when he reached out his hand and brought his fingertips to the back side of mine. The whisper-soft touch landed like lightning. He drew so close all I had room for was surprise. He brought his other hand to the inside of my wrist and gently tugged at the end of my ribbon, working it loose and unwinding it back a small bit.

And I could scarcely breathe.

Roan was oblivious as he ran his fingers over my skin. He took my hand, mindful of the cut, and lifted it slowly from one side to the other. He watched my wrist carefully, yet he didn’t see me falling to pieces right in front of him. When he tried moving my hand up and down, I winced. Finally, he looked at me.

And it was like he couldn’t look away.

I was pink with blush. My breathing was shallow and staggered. I didn’t know what my eyes were like, but I was sure it was nothing good. He saw it all.

His fingertips pressed deeper into my skin, and goose flesh rippled up my arm. His other hand abandoned its place, and he slipped his fingers up into my hair. I shuddered.

All I felt was want.

“Fen.”

He said my name like it was holy, like it meant more than just me. I was unraveling. He was closer than he’d ever been and suddenly not close enough.

Kiss me, I wanted to say.

“Stop,” I said instead.

He hesitated for only a moment, his expression flickering between disappointment and worry. Then he slipped his hands from my skin and into his lap.

He just sat there, looking at me. Some kind of storm was brewing behind his storm-blue eyes, and I could see a riot of thoughts and feelings having their way with him.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought—I shouldn’t have done that.”

I swallowed. If there was something to be said, I couldn’t think of it.

He was careful when he wrapped my ribbon back around my wrist and tucked in the end. Then he reached for one of his own, unwinding it into a ball. When his wrist was bare, he took up my hand once more and began wrapping my palm, covering my gash, not saying a word, not looking at my wild eyes.

When he finished, he pulled back his hands.

“Who told you about the Godless?” he asked.

I couldn’t tell him the truth. “It doesn’t matter,” I said, my laugh strained, more nervous than the easy thing I’d meant to give him. My focus landed everywhere but him.