Page 96 of Folds
He takes his time removing his hand, which thankfully feelsless like ice now. But instead of just letting go, he drags his claws down my thigh.
Slowly.
I gulp so he can’t hear my breath hitch. It's getting awfully warm in here—but I convince myself that it's just the blaze behind us. Has to be.
"About that tea—" I nearly sprint to the other side of the room the second he stops touching me.
chapter three
It feels like it takes an eternity for the tea, which unfortunately is a period relief blend, to brew. I decide to not tell Bahtam that he's about to drink "cubby wubby womb tea."
The egg timer finally dings.
“Thank Christ.”
I grab both mugs and carefully carry them toward the fire.
Bahtam sits half-curled beside the hearth, broad shoulders lit gold by the lantern glow. The cabin feels absurdly cramped with him inside it. His tail loops beneath the coffee table and curls back toward the stove, scales gleaming dark green whenever the fire cracks.
I set the cups to the side and grab my supplies.
The first aid kit I found under the sink looked ancient, full of rusted scissors and gauze yellowed with age. It wouldn't look out of place in a World War Two museum exhibit. Thankfully, the antibiotic ointment came from my hiking pack instead of the cabin supplies.
Still, it's what we've got, and despite how awful he looked when I first saw him, he seems to be doing better next to the fire.
The memory flashes through my head the second I look at him. Blood slick against scales. His hand presses hard over thewound in his side while rainwater drips from his hair onto the floorboards.
He seems so different now.
“You need stitches,” I say immediately.
Bahtam glances down at the gash like it barely registers.
“I need rest, I need warmth,” he mutters, trying his best to brush me off.
“You’re bleeding all over the floor.”
That earns the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Bahtam shifts closer to the firelight and lifts his arm, exposing the long tear across his ribs.
“Clean it then, if you must,” he sighs.
Simple, but direct.
Meanwhile, I was trying very hard not to notice I was kneeling between the coils of a half-dressed naga with a voice deep enough to vibrate through my chest. First aid shouldn't make you weak in the knees. Right?
I soak a rag in warm water and press it carefully to the wound. The second my fingers touch him, his muscles tighten beneath my hand.
His skin is warmer than before. And I swear his smooth scales that frame the torn flesh along his ribs are already mending, dark and glossy in the firelight. Every breath expands slowly beneath my palm.
“You’re lucky this isn’t infected,” I mutter while wiping blood away.
I wrap him with gauze, and the bandages around his ribs are rough at best, but it feels better than nothing.
I look up at him as my hand is pressed to his side.
Big mistake.
The fire paints his eyes molten gold as he watches me crouch between his coils, hands against his body, cleaning blood from his skin with embarrassing concentration.
