“They are. To resurrect one is unheard of. The Urabi will be weakened after exerting such a large amount of magic.” Arin’s gaze, though shrouded with discomfort, was still keen on our surroundings. “They must truly wish to impress you.”
I knotted the sleeve strips together. “This is going to hurt,” I warned him, and placed the end of a strip between my teeth. The muscles in Arin’s stomach tensed, but he didn’t make a sound as I wrapped the makeshift bandage tightly around his torso. I had to press my knee into his hip to reach around his back. My knuckles grazed everywhere I wrapped the bandages. His chest, his waist, the small of his back. The effect on my magic was significantly duller than when he grasped my hand.
I made the mistake of glancing up and found my face inches from Arin’s. Curiosity hooded the gaze fixed on mine, entirely too attentive for someone in his condition.
“Stop looking at me,” I demanded. “I am not going to make a mistake.”
A soft laugh escaped Arin. The sound reverberated beneath the palm I’d placed on his chest. It was the first time I’d heard him really laugh. Baira’s blessed hair, how much blood had he lost?
“Are you aware you have five freckles under your jaw?” He offered this information to me with complete seriousness, as though it had escaped from a vault of secrets.
I resisted the impulse to touch my jaw. “They are called hasanas in Jasad, not freckles.” I cursed the heat in my ears that meant they were turning the same shade as the dead Hound and quickly refocused on my task.
“You dangle yourself over a rocky riverbed, beat down my guards, wedge your arm into a Hound’s mouth. Yet you blush at a bare chest.”
Naturally, this encouraged the redness in my ears to spread to my cheeks. I tied the next strip with more force than intended, pulling a pained grunt from the Heir.
“I am not blushing. I’m afraid you have become delirious.”
Arin tipped his head back against the tree. “Maybe.”
My jest about dragging Arin to the tunnels might be closer to reality than I had imagined. I had forced him to fight past my magic. How much blood had he shed struggling against the barrier?
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I should not have trapped you. It’s just—you would have interfered and lost a limb unnecessarily. I knew it was here for me.”
“Don’t do it again.” The fleeting humor vanished from his tone. He was completely somber. “If you had been wrong, I wouldn’t have been released until you were dead and your magic’s hold broken.”
“You would have had time to run if it killed me first.” I finished tightening the bandages. Though I wagered Arin would walk through a pool of his own blood rather than surrender to his body, tenacity did not grant any superhuman abilities, even to its most ardent disciples.
Arin’s stare bored into the side of my face.
“Yes, I suppose I would have,” he said, and looked away.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The moment Marek introduced himself to me five years ago, all charm, lanky limbs, and sparkling teeth, I had instantly known him for what he was: trouble. Chaos with a pretty face. The impression was solidified within the first few weeks of his incessant flirting. Scowling and stalking away had failed to deter him. Knocking his eyeballs from his skull wasn’t an option if I wanted to maintain my pretense of fragility. So I seized the next best option. I tattled to Sefa.
Now that hitting Marek was an option, I found it quite hard to resist smashing his head into the bedside table. I had been studiously avoiding him since the incident in the training center. Knowing how deeply he regretted his behavior didn’t ease my own frustration. Lovers’ spat. Two careless words could have ended Sefa’s life.
The day after the Ruby Hound’s attack, Marek cornered me in my chambers. “If we were in Mahair, I could earn your forgiveness with a stack of prickly pears or sesame-seed candies. I am at a loss here, Sylvia.” He spread his arms.
I regarded Marek, once again wishing for Arin’s talent for seeing through people. Cutting past the noise and into the heart of the beast. Whatever caused his outburst was linked to the same impulse that drove Marek to accept his back-breaking position with Yuli and his bristling hatred for Nizahl. In many ways, I understood Marek better than Sefa. Sefa’s heart was the governing force behind her actions. She categorized every decision into uncomprosining columns of right and wrong. To properly burn, rage must be given room to grow, and Sefa had long decided she would never open herself up to becoming its kindling.