“You really do say the sweetest things, Moonbeam.”
“Thanks. I try my hardest.”
“Hate to see you not trying,” he drones, yanking at what I realize are his pant fastenings when they’re pushed past his muscular ass, revealing his dusky undergarments. “I don’t think my poor heart could handle it. Now, unless you want an eyeful, I suggest turning your attention elsewhere.”
“I’m not giving you my back,” I growl, my words chased by his airy sigh.
“Suit yourself. But if I wanted to hurt you in any way, I had plenty of chances in the cell I rescued you from.”
He spins.
My eyes widen, the organ in my chest thumping to a halt.
He’s stacked together like boulders, his abdominals so defined they hardly look real. And though all that’s impressive, it’s far from the reason my lungs have suddenly stopped working.
More pale scars mar almost every inch of skin on the front of him, too—both big and small.
Long and short.
Some are fine-cut lines that are perfectly predictable, like they’ve come from the slash of a blade. Some are thick and messy, healed in such an angry manner that I can almost feel whatever it was that sawed through his flesh. There’s distinct stab wounds and other marks that look like something toothy lunged for a bite and carved off curls of flesh.
My gaze narrows on the round, flat, black and silver carving that hangs from a braided strap of leather bound around his neck, absorbing the intricate design—a Sabersythe and a Moonplume locked in an embrace.
I frown, smothering the strange urge to ask if I can take a closer look.
He kicks off his pants, grabs a small satchel from his saddlebag, then begins striding toward the west side of the pool. My gaze drops to his undergarments, material that does nothing to hide the outline of his manhood hanging thick and heavy between muscular thighs lashed in the welted remnants of old—
My breath hitches.
I whirl around, my cheeks attacked with a flush of heat.
Burns.
He has burns.
I hear him dump something on the shore, the water disturbed by a wave of ripples. I cast a glance over my shoulder to where Kaan is now wading toward a trickling waterfall that feeds into this small plunge pool, cushioned from all angles by fluffy foliage the color of copper.
The squiggly lines of melted flesh look as though a fiery serpent lashed around his thigh. More than once.
The lump in my chest feels heavier than usual.
I wonder how he got them? They look almost … strained. Like they happened when he was small, and the scar tissue stretched as he grew—
I shake my head, jerking away from the thought.
Tyrant King.
Dangerous.
Has a very hungry dragon.
Again, I peruse his many other scars while he lathers himself with his own bar of soap, frothing the thick black hair under his arms …
He’s a warrior, and the biggest male I’ve ever seen in every way, shape and form. He’s probably looked death in the eye more times than I have.
Damn.
Getting away might be harder than I originally anticipated. I’m not opposed to challenges, but I prefer them when I’m not already on the back foot—bound and with an iron pin lodged in my fucking shoulder.
He works the bubbles through his beard and hair, stepping under the fall of water to rinse off while I fail to manhandle the bar of soap beneath my heavy tunic so I can wash myself. Hard with my hands tied together in such an awkward position.
“Bet you’re wishing you lied about your murderous intentions when I offered to free your hands earlier,” Kaan drones.
“You have no idea,” I mutter, also wishing I had a spare change of clothes so I could rip this tunic off my body. Finally be done with this scratchy cell garb.
The soap slips from my hands just as I was about to wedge it up beneath the fabric, and I groan, settling instead for scrubbing my face and hair, working the bind from my thick, matted locks for the first time in … a while.
So focused on the task of trying to untangle my sodden tendrils, it takes me too long to register the off sensation tickling my skin, making it pebble.
I frown. “This water tingles.”
“Dunk lower,” Kaan says, tipping back, allowing the waterfall to wash over his head again before easing free. With a dash of both hands, he pushes his shoulder-length hair back off his face, next running them through his beard. “It has healing properties.”
Well, that’s handy.
He stalks through the pool, making for the shore, beads of water peppered across his beautiful body. I do as he said, needing my strength if I’m going to make a swift escape when the opportunity strikes, dunking low enough that the ripples he makes fold over my shoulders.