Nightbane (Lightlark, #2)(82)

Without warning, he lifted her in his arms again. And set her on his lap.

Isla tensed. She was still in her far-too-revealing Nightshade dress. “What are you doing?”

“You need to keep still,” he said. “Or the glass is going to move while I’m working and make removing all of it almost impossible. I can make you pass out if you prefer.”

Isla balked. “I most certainly do not prefer that.”

He looked down at her, waiting for approval to continue. She gritted her teeth and said, “Fine.”

“So charming,” he said coolly. Then he snaked his arms around her, pinning her in place, while he gently opened her fingers.

She wasn’t breathing. She was engulfed by him. He was cold as bone. She shivered.

He plucked the first piece of glass from her hand, and she bucked again. This time, though, his arms were around her, hard as iron, keeping her in place. She breathed too quickly, pain shooting up her arm. She watched him expertly remove piece after piece.

She gasped at an especially deep incision. He was tall enough that he rested his chin against the top of her head, and said, “There are about a dozen more on this hand alone, so I would find a way around the pain.”

She peered up at him. He glanced down at her for half a second before focusing back on her hand.

“Where were you?” she demanded.

A muscle feathered in his jaw. It had been a month since she had seen him. “I was preoccupied,” he finally said.

“With what?”

He said nothing.

She scoffed. Unbelievable. “What could be more important than finding the sword?”

“Not more important, simply more . . . pressing.” He had hinted at trouble in his realm. Was that what he was referring to?

“You could have told me. You could have visited at least once . . . allowed me to tell you what I had learned.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “Miss me, Hearteater?”

She huffed. “No. Every time I see you, I get injured, or insulted.”

Grim frowned, just the smallest bit. He focused solely on her hand. “What were you thinking?” he said harshly.

She sighed, wincing at another shot of pain. “I was thinking I could find the sword without you,” she said honestly.

Isla leaned against his chest, gritting her teeth against the pulling of the glass. Some shards were small, but others felt like knives being plucked from her palms. She tried to breathe past it. The same pain, over and over, she could almost get used to. She had learned that during the hours she had spent preparing for specific Centennial ceremonies.

“I went looking for you, before,” she said, voice just a rasp.

“I know.”

The woman must have told him. Her cheeks suddenly heated with embarrassment. And . . . something else. Her next question bubbled out of her. “Who was that woman?”

“She’s my general,” he said.

His general. “Does she suspect . . . ?”

“I told her you were someone I had found to bed from another realm.”

Isla swallowed. He said the words so simply . . . was that what she was to him? A girl from another realm he had clearly, at Creetan’s Crag, wanted to bed?

Inside, she felt like shattered glass, but she closed her eyes and said as smoothly as she could manage, “I know where the sword is. The thief in Creetan’s Crag told me.”

“Where?”

“The Caves of Irida.”

“I know it.”

She expected him to look happier about this development; they were so much closer to finding the sword, but his focus was still pinned on her hand. The last piece of glass on that hand clinked against the bowl. He leaned down and whispered right near her ear, “This is going to hurt,” before he poured alcohol over her hand.

Grim pressed his palm against her scream. She was grateful. It was an anchor in the sea of pain.

It was blinding. She writhed against him, and he cleared his throat. One of his hands pressed against her hip, holding her still.

“If you can help it,” he ground out, “please stop that.”

Oh.

She froze.

She was suddenly far too conscious of his body pressed against her as he reached for her other hand and began again.

Underneath her, Grim had tensed completely. His eyes were trained on her palm. He looked intent on his task.

She was not. What was wrong with her? The pain slowly muted as she focused on every graze of his callused fingers against hers. Every part of her was too sensitive. She was now very aware of every place they were touching. The chin against the crown of her head. The muscled torso behind her, hard as rock. Beneath her . . .

She drew a shaky breath.

Grim seemed to rush, because just a few moments later, he said, “Done.” This time, he easily lifted her off him before pouring the alcohol on her hand. She closed her eyes tightly and didn’t open them again until the Moonling remedies began to reduce the pain.

He was staring at her.

“Thank you,” she said.

He said nothing.

“When can we go to the caves?”

“Once you can properly hold a sword again.” It wouldn’t be long. By morning, with her Wildling elixirs, most of her wounds would be healed. They would still hurt, but not enough for her to want to delay their search.