Page 100 of Lana Pecherczyk

No one else had shown him this. No one else had reacted to him like this. Needed him like this.

He shut off the faucet and wrapped her hand in a dish towel embroidered with gaudy palm trees. Once dry, he held her fingers to the light and examined her wounds. His throat tightened at the bright crimson against her olive skin. Despite his mother and sister having a healing gift, River could barely knit together a scratch. If these cuts were any deeper, he’d be helpless in here.

His heart squeezed. “Bleeding for this ritual isn’t worth it.”

“There’s no other way out of here.” She ducked her head. Hair fell from her bun, hiding her eyes. But not before he caught a fresh tear spilling down her cheek. “I need to fix this so you can return to your mission for the cryptex.”

Cloud’s V-painted face flashed in River’s mind, and he frowned.

That was the real reason he’d been desperate to get to the Great Murder. Ash was here to provide the backup plan for the cryptex. But Blake didn’t know that.

He searched for a place to set her down, but the counter was covered in the aftermath of her meal preparation. With one mighty sweep of his arm and a little mana for coralling assistance, he shoved everything into the sink. The clatter of ceramic and vegetables echoed his internal chaos.

“Not worth it, Blake.” His voice came out rough with emotion. “But you are.”

Chapter

Thirty-One

River gripped Blake’s waist, so small in his scarred hands, and lifted her onto the cleared counter. The domesticity of the moment hit him like a punch to the gut.

This should have been different. He should have courted her, showered her with gifts, publicly swooped to announce his claim, danced, and made love under the moonlight.

“Let me look at this properly.” He cradled her injured hand, searching for fragments that might cause infection. “Even fae get sick if they don’t heal fast enough. We need to remove the shards.”

“I thought fae were immortal,” she said, then quickly muttered, “but I’m not fae.”

“Fae aren’t immortal,” he replied, drawing on his mana. The familiar warmth tingled through his palms as he fed the magic into her raw flesh, so many cuts. “They just live long.”

She watched him work. “Do you think that’s why I haven’t developed magic yet?”

“That you’re not fae? No. The other Well-blessed women are human.”

“Oh yeah.” She sniffed. “When the kelpie attacked, I swear I saw the vase break. But when I collected it, I found it fixedagain. I thought maybe I’d done it with magic, but I must have hallucinated.” She glanced at the floor by the bed nook where the little plant sat, its sapling wobbling from travel.

Her disappointment was tangible in its weight.

“Something will develop.” River squeezed her arm. “I sense your power, Blake. It’s there. I can even siphon it off if I need to.” He paused, unsure if the next part would hinder or help, but she should know. “You’re probably the first to thaw after the taint almost ruined the Well. We don’t know what effect that might have.”

Maybe no one else would receive a specific gift like the first nine women. Perhaps they’d ruined their chances by not stopping Nero sooner. Maybe River should have done more instead of plotting to take down Cloud.

As he moved to Blake’s next cut, she started babbling again. “I’m sorry I fucked up the meal. Your mother’s recipe said the potatoes should be sliced like straws, but I’ve never peeled potatoes with a knife before. So it looks all hacked up and ugly. Never cooked much in me old life at all.” Her voice cracked. “Couldn’t keep up with Jeff’s dietary demands. Never could prepare the chicken, add enough protein, or slice the onion thin enough. So he just took over. It was easier that way. At least it was done how he wanted.”

“He never let you cook?” River’s words came out sharp with disbelief.

“I’m not good at much.” She wiped her eyes, shrugging. “Except renovating things.” A sniff. “Bedazzling them. Maybe. I don’t know. He was probably right.”

Rage bubbled beneath River’s skin. Obliterating that tree had not been enough to punish Dickface for his treatment of Blake.

“I’m sorry you’re stuck with me,” she whispered.

“Stop fucking apologizing.” His growl came out harsher than intended. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry about.”

“I have everything to be sorry about.”

“You?” The word exploded from him. “Like what?”

Could she not see how damaged he was? His wings were missing half their feathers, scarred and too useless to fly. His tattoos were broken, just like the promises he’d made to protect those he loved. And that was just on the outside.