Page 80 of Mates for the Raskarrans #1-6

CHAPTER FIVE

Rachel

V antos won’t let me throw out the flowers until they are so brown and shrivelled that they’re barely recognisable as flowers anymore.

When Sally told me about his response to them, I felt so afraid that I had made an enemy in him - the member of the tribe I want to make an enemy of least. Not because he’s big and scary and influential among the raskarrans, though that does cross my mind.

It’s more the debt I feel to him for stepping between me and the Cliff Top tribe.

For saving my life. I never want him to think I’m not grateful for that.

As the days pass, he starts to improve quicker.

It seems like no time at all between him barely being able to sit up with help, to me finding him attempting to do press-ups on the floor of the medical hut, sweat glistening over the well-defined muscles of his shoulders and back as he struggles through the pain.

The sight makes my mouth go dry, my eyes scouring over every exposed inch of him, watching the ripple of muscle beneath his skin.

My body warms a little, my mind going back to the day he stroked his fingers over the sensitive skin on my wrist. I don’t think he knew how much that gentle touch affected me, how the tickle of his skin against mine made coils of heat bloom between my thighs.

He wasn’t touching me to affect me that way - it was an inspection, not a seduction.

But that didn’t stop my body reacting, and when he brushed his fingers over my hair, I wanted him to pull me close, touch other, needier parts of me.

But that’s just yet another way that I am living up to my role as the stupid one.

Vantos doesn’t want anything to do with me.

I’m not his linasha. I’ve seen the way the raskarrans watch Anghar and Ellie, Gregar and Liv, Sally and Jaskry, the unmasked hunger in their gazes.

They look at us girls, too, but it’s not the same.

They don’t crave a female body the way a human guy would.

It’s the bond, the connection between a male and his linasha that they desire above all else.

So I swallow down my body’s reaction, clear my throat so he knows I’m here.

He glances over his shoulder at me, then struggles through one more push up before shifting into a seated position, his back against the bed frame.

He looks exhausted, washed out, his face a pale green hue.

Sweat has gathered in his hair, sticking it to his face, and he puffs out a frustrated breath.

“You’ll heal quicker if you stop pushing yourself so hard,” I say.

I don’t know this, but it feels like it’s true.

Besides, he can’t understand me, anyway.

I’ve taken to talking to him like this - saying all the things that come into my head instead of fighting to keep them in like I normally do.

It’s relaxing, not having to worry about what he’ll think of my words.

He gestures to his chest, grumbling something. I can no more understand him than he can understand me. We both just talk at each other.

I fetch the cloth I used all those days ago to cool his forehead and dunk it in the cold water before passing it to him.

He shoots me a grateful look before mopping his neck and face.

My eyes zero in on a single droplet of water as it runs down over his collarbone, across his chest, before being soaked up by the bandages.

I blink a few times, forcing myself to focus on anything else.

I’m doing the busywork of straightening out Shemza’s supplies when Vantos hauls himself up into the bed.

He doesn’t lie down, but stays sitting up, his feet on the floor, his back not propped by piles of pelts.

He rolls his shoulders, stretching his arms out in front of him, then overhead, bending and twisting the stiffness out of his muscles and joints.

I’m hypnotised by the sight of him. All that power and strength coiled inside him, held back by the wounds on his chest.

It must be so frustrating for him to be so strong and capable and be reduced as he is. No wonder he’s pushing himself to be better.

“You’d be better off concentrating on resting and eating,” I say, bringing over a bowl of food for him.

He takes it, tucking into his meal with enthusiasm.

No more staring at it like it might vanish if he glared at it hard enough.

It’s just one of the many signs of his improvement, but it makes me glow with particular pleasure to see him eating heartily, having watched him struggle to swallow down the food I fed him that first day after his fever broke.

I take his empty dish from him and clean it, humming to myself as I do. I know I should try to stop myself. Jeremy always said it was my most annoying habit, and I really, really don’t want to be annoying. But I can’t help it. It just happens when I’m feeling happy.

A memory comes back to me with sudden vividness.

Telling Jeremy that the humming was because I was in a good mood, because I was happy.

Him telling me he’d be happy if I was quiet.

I glance at Vantos. He’d probably be happier if I was quiet, too.

Poor guy has to lie here all day, frustrated that he’s injured.

He doesn’t need the added frustration of my noise.

So I press my lips together as I finish cleaning up. Force myself to stop.

When I turn back to Vantos, he’s picking at his bandages. He sees me looking, and makes a scratching gesture, then points at the spot on his shoulder where he was wounded.

“Itching you, huh?” I say, crossing to his side and taking over untying the bandages.

His fingers are too big to untie Grace’s neat little knots, but I make quick work of them, peeling the bandages back.

I don’t know if itching is good or not. Grace says itching can be a sign of healing, but also a sign of infection.

I find that a lot with medicines. The same symptom can mean opposite things.

I know infection is usually shown by swelling around the wound, redness to the skin, plus a high temperature, so I trace my fingers carefully across the wounds on Vantos’ chest, looking for any signs.

Redness on the skin in raskarrans is actually closer to brownness, due to their green colouring, so I look for that as I probe the edges of the wounds, looking for any particularly tender or sore spots.

Even my untrained eye can see that he’s healing well, though. The wounds have all scabbed over, there’s no swelling around them, and he doesn’t suck in a breath when my fingers get close anymore. I wonder if a final treatment with djenti berry paste would get rid of the wounds once and for all now.

The thought makes me happy and sad in equal measure.

I’m happy that he’s getting better. I’m not that selfish.

But I’m sad he won’t need to stay in this hut much longer, that I won’t need to look after him.

I’ve enjoyed caring for him, and I think I’m good at it.

It’s nice to be good at something, to be needed for something, for once.

“Think you’ll be going home soon,” I say.

Vantos looks up at me, his face solemn and serious. He says something, but it’s not a list of names of medicines, so of course I don’t understand him.

“I know it’s stupid, but, I’m going to miss having you around.” I drop my head, a low mood stealing over me. “Suppose it’s no surprise. That’s just me, isn’t it? Stupid little Rachel.”

“Rachel,” Vantos says, and his gruff, low voice and strong accent make my name sound unfamiliar.

And sexy. It sends little shivers down my spine, heat pooling low in my belly at the way he gazes so intently at me.

It would be easy to imagine that he cares about me, but he doesn’t.

He’s like this with everyone. Serious and solemn and dedicated.

He’d probably give a conversation with Shemza about the merits of the different roots used in the meat broths the same focus.

Vantos itches at the skin around his wound again. I bat his hand away and give him a stern look.

“You are a very bad patient, you know? Always complaining, always trying to do more than you’re ready for, and now scratching at yourself.”

He grumbles back to me. I think about how he frightened me when he first woke up, how nervous I was to interact with him.

But I know now that grumbling is all bluster.

He’s cross with the circumstances, not me.

For all that he’s big and strong and stern, he’s also very gentle.

Whenever I have to get up close to him - changing his bandages, or treating his wounds - he always holds himself so still.

I think he knows he’s intimidating, and tries to do what he can to reduce it.

As if scaring me is the last thing he would want to do.

Maybe I’m reading overmuch into my interactions with a guy I can’t actually speak to, but I’m starting to think of Vantos as a perfect gentleman.

“We could treat you with a pulp of focha root,” I say, scanning through my growing catalogue of remedies and treatments. “It would sting a bit, though - best for rashes and unbroken skin.”

Then Vantos scratches irritably at the back of his neck, and I know he has no injuries there.

It hits me all of a sudden that he’s probably not particularly itchy because of his injuries, but because he’s been lying in his own sweat for days.

He’s not been strong enough before now to take a trip to the bathing pools just outside the village, but if he can do push-ups, he can probably use his legs just fine.