Page 57 of Demon's Beauty

He crosses his arms over his chest, defiant.

A terrible, terrible patient.

“Nothing to see,” he drawls. “I’m all better.”

“You agreed to let me be the judge of that.”

“Did I?”

I cross my own arms. “Yes, you did.”

Slowly, and with a long-suffering sigh, he turns and removes his shirt. His skin has definitely improved more since this morning, but I wouldn’t call him ‘all better’ by a long shot.

The injury is still a bit red and raw, and I make a mental note to apply more salve when we get back to camp. That should help, though I also unconsciously draw on a bit of my healing power as I reach up to touch him.

A low rumble breaks in Finn’s chest.

Soft, but enough to startle me frozen, hand hanging in mid-air.

“Did you… did you justgrowlat me?”

The growl cuts off, and he looks sheepishly back over his shoulder. “No?”

“Is that a question?” I grumble, reaching back out to touch him, magick trembling at my fingertips.

Finn turns abruptly, catching my wrist in his hand. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Use more of your magick. I’m fine, I really am. There’s no reason to—”

“Oh, for pete’s sake. Turn around.”

“Who’s Pete?” he asks, but he turns.

“No one. It’s a human saying that means,I can’t believe we’re having this argument again. I’m not going to burn myself out. Just going to do a little touch-up, and…”

My words trail off as I brush against his skin, drawing on much less power than I had to last night, but enough to draw a sigh of relief from Finn’s chest.

“Goddess, that’s… I don’t even have the words for it.”

“Good, right?” I tease, letting my fingertips trail across the burn, watching the redness recede in their wake.

The pain in my own hands is more of an itchy tingle this time, and I am absolutely not going to mention that part of my magick to Finn. Not unless I want him to get all noble and dramatic again, and I absolutely have no intention of doing that.

“Sit over there?” I murmur a couple of minutes later when I’m nearly done, pointing to a fallen tree trunk off the path that will make a suitable bench. “I want a better look.”

Again, Finn obeys, and as I come to stand behind him and get a better vantage point to the top of his burns, I’m even more satisfied.

“I don’t think the fire touched your wing,” I say, examining the expanse of muscled shoulder where his skin meets the base of his wing.

From there, I can’t help myself.

My fingers trace from the base and higher, over the black, leathery skin that stretches between thick tendons which hold the structure of the wing together.

It’s fascinating—imagining what he must look like in flight, feeling the shift of skin and muscle and sinew, the power of him waiting to be unleashed.

It’s so fascinating that it takes me longer than it should to realize Finn has gone rigid beneath my touch.