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CHAPTER TWELVE

J essamin’s heart thundered in her chest as she added the herbs to the water, but her hands remained steady. Ulric’s initial rejection stung, yet seeing the deep exhaustion etched in his face and the raw pain in his golden eyes only strengthened her resolve.

She reached for the bandage wrapped around his arm, and he didn’t try to stop her.

The bloodied rag was crude work, hastily wrapped.

Her fingers found the edge and began to unwind it.

As she worked, her fingertips brushed the hot, fevered skin of his forearm and a tremor ran through his huge body.

She kept her eyes on her task, pretending not to notice.

The wound reached high on his bicep, the sturdy fabric of his tunic preventing proper access. She hesitated, her fingers hovering over the leather ties at his collar.

“I need to…” The words died in her throat.

His chest rose and fell with a deep breath. A slight nod.

She carefully unfastened the laces. The fabric parted, revealing the hard planes of his shoulder and chest, and her breath caught. His skin was a tapestry of scars, silvery lines that spoke of countless battles. Beneath them, his muscles were carved from stone, a testament to his inhuman strength.

Her fingers hovered uncertainly at the hem of his tunic and he gave an impatient grunt, then grabbed the back of his tunic with his uninjured arm and yanked it over his head. She could tell the action cost him, but he didn’t make a sound.

She dipped a cloth in the warm water, then carefully applied it at the edge of the wound.

The first touch made him hiss between his teeth, but he didn’t pull away.

She worked in silence, cleaning away dried blood and grit.

His jaw remained clenched, but he sat perfectly still under her ministrations.

“There was a rockslide,” he said finally, his voice low and gravelly. “The safety netting had been sabotaged. This was no accident. Nor was the poison in the tea.”

Her hand trembled against his arm. She had known, of course, but hearing him say it made her stomach twist. “I’m sorry.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You had nothing to do with it.”

“No, but…” She swallowed. “I know you must be concerned.”

The thought that she might have brought a spy into his stronghold was like a weight on her soul.

“I will find out who is behind this. You have my word.”

His eyes turned black as they met hers and she knew she was seeing a hint of his Beast. Her heart skipped a beat. Not fear exactly, but a kind of primal awareness.

She nodded, returning her attention to his wound.

The quiet pressed around them, heavy and thick.

Only the soft splash of water and the sound of their breathing broke the stillness.

Her movements slowed, becoming almost ritualistic.

She was acutely aware of him as a male—the heat radiating from his skin, the raw power contained in the muscles under her hands, the wild masculine scent that was uniquely him.

A dizzying pull drew her closer, desire coiling low in her belly. The need to touch him, to trace those scars with her fingers, to press her lips to his skin, was almost painful in its intensity, but she forced herself to focus on her task.

She finished cleaning the wound, and she could see the edges had already begun to close. The flesh was raw and angry, but no longer in danger of tearing open. Her fingers lingered on the uninjured part of his arm, unable to break contact.

He let out a ragged breath, and she looked up and found his gaze, dark and intense, fixed on her mouth.