Immortal Consequences(119)
“What happened?”
“I got hurt in the trial.” He slumped over her desk, a strained expression on his face as he sat down.
“I think I might have something that can help,” she muttered, bending down and reaching beneath her bed. Her hands blindly searched, brushing against the floorboards, until her fingers grazed the cool glass of the liquor bottle.
She set it down next to him and August eyed her warily, hands clutching the edge of the desk.
“All right,” Wren breathed out. “Let me see what we’re dealing with first.”
He grimaced as he began to unbutton his shirt, fingers steady. The hard lines of his stomach were visible through the darkness, his tanned skin illuminated by the silver light pooling into the room.
He pulled down the left side of his shirt to reveal the gash in his shoulder.
Wren couldn’t contain the gasp that sprang out of her. It wasn’t the blood or the mangled skin that startled her, but the particles of magic simmering beneath the surface. This wasn’t a regular wound.
“Who did this to you?” she choked out, tracing the line of the gash. Anger struck her chest, sudden and unfamiliar.
He shook his head. “No one. Bad luck.”
“Really? That’s all I get?” Wren waited, but August remained silent, his mouth set into a hard line. She let out a bitter chuckle. “Right. Honesty comes with a price. I get it.”
“Loughty.”
“It’s fine.”
She bit her tongue and stepped forward, positioning herself between his knees. It was obvious somebody had cast a corporeal spell on him. That somebody had injured him with magic. But who and why was a secret August clearly had no intention of revealing.
She picked up the liquor bottle and shook it gently. “I’m going to pour it directly into the wound.”
“Right.”
“It’s going to hurt.”
He let out a snort. “Naturally.”
Fine. Be a prick, Wren thought before turning the bottle over and flushing the wound out.
August’s reaction was instantaneous, a low groan ripping from his throat as he slammed his head back against the wall. His grip on the desk tightened. Every muscle on his body flexed. His mouth parted and a shallow breath fluttered from his lips as his eyes shot open, flicking up and down her face, as if he were searching for something.
“I warned you.”
He nodded and winced. “Fair enough.”
“Hold on,” she whispered. “I might have something to wrap it with.”
She reached to her side, slipping off one of the pillowcases from her bed. It was thin and flimsy, but it was better than nothing. Before August could protest, she pressed the fabric against the wound.
He let out another groan, deeper than the first.
Wren shot her gaze up to meet his. “Sorry.”
“What are you apologizing for?” August muttered, almost annoyed. “You’re the one helping me when I’ve never given you a reason to.” He hesitated, breaths shallow, before adding, “If anything…I should be the one apologizing.”
“For what?”
He shrugged. “Everything.”
“Well, I’m no saint either.”
He shook his head. “That’s not true. You aren’t—you’re nothing like me.”
The words came before she could stop them. “I think I’m more like you than either one of us is willing to admit.”
He grimaced. “A side effect of forced proximity.”
“Forced?” Wren looped the fabric under his arm and back over the wound. “You’re the one who started pestering me, August. Nobody forced you to speak to me.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what?”
“I just—” He winced and regained his composure. “Sometimes I think that even if we hadn’t died, if we’d been born centuries apart, we would have still found a way to each other.”
“Destined to endure the torment of one another’s company,” Wren added with a slight smirk, smoothing down the fabric.
“Torment.” August closed his eyes as he repeated the word. “That’s really how you’d describe our relationship?”
Wren’s hand froze over the wound. “What word would you use?”
He opened his eyes and threaded the next word into her thoughts.
Complicated.
Neither of them moved, their eyes locked together. Frustration welled in her chest.
“You can’t do this, August.” Wren shook her head, backing away from him. “You’re giving me whiplash.”
August flinched. “Loughty—”
“One moment I’m certain that I must mean nothing to you, and the next…” She ran a hand through her hair, a bitter chuckle escaping her throat. “Well…if I was stupid and na?ve enough to believe it, I would say you act like…like you care about me—”
“And what if I did?” August interjected, voice hoarse.
Silence fell upon them like a sudden gust of wind.
“What did you say?” Wren whispered.
August released a loaded sigh.
“Would it be so terrible…if I did…care about you?”
“No.” Wren stepped toward him. “Of course it wouldn’t.”