Page 56 of House of Crimson Cloak and Silver Teeth

“You’re in pain,” he says quietly. “You’ve been favoring your left leg all day.”

Damn him for being observant.

The punishment from the Judge’s cane bit deep into my bones. They broke my leg in multiple places and healed it just enough that I could walk. Some days my knee has this dull ache. Other days, like today after hours of riding, it’s fire. The Hlaryan healers Garrett hired worked miracles. The knee is better than it was, but it’ll never be right. Some things can’t be completely undone.

“I saw you limping when we watered the horses.” He’s still watching me carefully.

I could deny it. The lie forms on my tongue, ready. But Garrett will see through it. He’s gotten frustratingly good at seeing through my bullshit. Somehow he’s learned to read me better than anyone ever has.

He sits up, studying me. Before I can protest, he’s sliding down to the foot of the bed. “Let me help.”

“You can’t help with this.” I pull back slightly.

His hand moves to my left thigh, resting there gently. “Is the pain here?”

I tense. “What are you doing?”

“Helping. If you’ll let me.” He applies gentle pressure. Even through my leathers I can feel the heat of his palm. “I learned some things during my training in Kvatosh Temple. Muscle manipulation and pressure points might ease the pain. Let me take care of you.”

“I don’t need taking care of,” I rasp.

“Wolf.” His voice is exasperated now. “Stop being stubborn and let me do this.”

“Fine,” I mutter.

His hand moves in slow circles over the injury, applying steady pressure. It’s careful and bears nothing inappropriate. But my body doesn’t care about the innocent contact. Every touch sends sparks up my spine.

“You’ll need to take off your breeches,” he says after a moment. “I can’t work through the fabric properly.”

“Fuck no.”

“Wolf—”

“Absolutely not.”

His sigh is soft, resigned. “You can cover yourself with the blanket. I promise I won’t do anything weird.”

“This is already weird.”

“Fair point.” He doesn’t move his hand. “But it’ll help. Trust me?”

I do trust him.

“Fine,” I say again. “But turn around.”

His mouth quirks up at the corner. He turns and faces the wall while I awkwardly work my trousers down. The blanket is thin and doesn’t cover much, but it’s something. My smallclothes stay on at least.

I clear my throat. “Done.”

He turns back, and his eyes don’t stray from my face.

“May I?” He doesn’t move until I give a short nod. Then his hands are on my bare thigh and I have to bite back a sound.

His touch is warm and firm. He finds the damaged muscle, applying pressure that borders on painful but somehow feels good at the same time. His fingers work in steady circles, kneading the tight tissue.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he says quietly.

It’s already too much. Not the pressure on my leg, but the intimacy of this whole fucking thing.