Page 41 of Soulbound

"I'm fine. It's just a scratch," he murmured. "An imp took me by surprise."

"Of course it's just a scratch. That's why you look so pale."

"Are you all right?" he asked, his silky lashes shielding his eyes as he glanced down at her.

"Quite." She wasn't the one who'd been left to fight a pack of imps.

"No... remaining side effects?"

Her cheeks burned. "None."

Cleo's mouth still tingled from Sebastian's kiss, but he'd retreated into himself. He lifted the brandy to his lips, and then set it aside with a mutter. "I'm sorry, I'm not at all myself. If you'll excuse me," Sebastian murmured. "I think I need to go to bed."

"Should I find Cleo a bedchamber?" Verity called, and Sebastian barely glanced at her. He pressed a hand to his side as he vanished through the doorway.

"Well," Verity said, and looked toward her apologetically.

"I think I should sleep in my own bed tonight," Cleo told her quietly. As if there was any other possibility.

But Bishop was staring after his brother.

"What's wrong?" she asked him.

"I offered to heal him, but he wouldn't let me."

Cleo's heart jammed itself into her throat. "What do you mean? It is just a scratch?"

"Sometimes imps have poisonous claws, and I don't know how deep his wounds are. He wouldn't let me look at them." Bishop hesitated. "I'd go after him, but...."

But he doesn't entirely trust you. "I'll do it. Verity, could you see to making up a bedchamber for me?"

Cleo followed her husband into the hallway. He hadn't gone far, staring up the stairs as if they led all the way to heaven, and his legs already felt like lead. "Are you going to let me see to that wound?"

He blinked when he saw her, and her heart started to tick a little faster. Signs of fever made his eyes sink into his head. She pressed a hand to his forehead. Burning up.

"Let's get you upstairs," Cleo murmured, tucking herself under his arm and trying to tackle the stairs.

It wasn't easy.

"You don't have to do this," he murmured.

You stupid fool. Her heart twisted in her chest as she remembered their wedding night, when she'd finally realized he'd actually been shot. He hadn't told her then either, though he'd admitted his mother refused to heal him because he'd been responsible for foiling her plans.

Little wonder he didn't ask for help. What else had he suffered over the years because Morgana deemed his feelings unimportant?

Pain barely bothered him. He was clearly used to pain. But depending upon someone was his Achilles heel.

"I know," she whispered, finally managing to get him up the stairs. "But I want to help. I hate seeing you hurt."

He stared at her, then sighed and pushed open the door to his bedchamber. "You're not going to let up, are you?"

"Would you rather I didn't care?"

Those quicksilver eyes gave nothing away.

She closed the door behind her, helping him to sit on the bed. A quick glimpse beneath his coat revealed bloody stains. "Wait here while I fetch some water and a cloth."

When she'd returned, he'd managed to strip his coat off, and sweat dampened his hair. Fresh blood stained his shirt, as if he'd torn his wound open in trying to undress himself.