Page 37 of Wolfkissed
“Out with you, wolf,” Della says before I can think of a paid reply and sends the men out. “Bert, get him out of here.”
Irritation prickles that she’d think I can’t handle this, but… But I sort of lost control of the situation, didn’t I? Of myself. I hadn’t expected the wolf to be so… playful. Teasing.
Or so sexy, which…
Della closes the door firmly against the three men and leans against it with a sigh.
“Now,” she says after a moment of terse silence, “let’s see to that wound…”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ROSAMUND
We’re both quiet for a while, just standing there and listening for any sounds from outside the door. Soon enough, though, the men’s voices fade away, and quiet returns.
Della helps me out of my clothes and places my blood-stained dress aside to clean and mend, then she examines the shallow cut on my forearm and tsks.
“It won’t scar,” she says. “It’s a shallow cut.”
“What’s another scar?” I say, but she throws me a knowing look. She knows I care. Too much.
“Let me wash this and bind it. You were careless, my lady.”
“Was I?”
“Yes. Didn’t I teach you to let the men walk before you? They are expendable. You are not.”
“Nobody is expendable,” I mutter, frowning.
“They are your servants. We all are.”
“You are my people,” I protest. “The only friends I have.”
“My lady?—”
“You know it’s the truth.”
She nods once, her eyes meeting mine briefly, then she tugs on my wrist, leading me to the washbasin. There, shemakes a small sound. “What happened here? It’s all filthy and… bloodied.”
“Valen,” I say. At her blank look, I clarify, “The werewolf. He washed himself here.”
“Oh? He really has no manners! It’s true what they say, that they live like animals, then. Rolling in their own filth, I’ll bet.”
“Della—”
“We’ll do a field dressing, then. Did I ever tell you that my father was in the royal army?”
“No, why?—?”
She pulls a small flask from her cleavage and abandons my wrist to unscrew it. The smell of strong alcohol hits me like a fist. “This is what we need.”
“Are you…? Youdrink?”
“Sometimes a woman needs a little something to relax in the evenings,” she says defensively. “Or in the mornings.”
I’m torn between hilarity and shock. “You’ve been hiding things from me.”
“I’m not proud of my habits,” she says quietly. “Picked them up from my parents, and when I get anxious… Well, you know all about that. We all deal with it in our own way.”
