Page 98 of The Winner's Kiss
He began to clean it. Pinkish water ran down her leg. The ground beneath her grew damp. He blotted away blood with gauze, and it did hurt, yet his touch was tender and he was skilled at this, so that when he unscrewed the pot of whitish salve and began to dab it along the cut, she asked, “Did you learn this in battle?”
His head remained bowed, and he kept his gaze on what he was doing. “Some things. Others, from books. Or—” He abruptly stopped.
“Arin?”
“Under Valorian rule, we learned to do what we could for ourselves. For others. When we were hurt.”
“When they hurt you.”
He shrugged, reaching for the roll of gauze.
“I should have known. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“You can ask me anything.”
The cream was cool and tingled. Her whole body relaxed with the absence of pain.
He placed gauze on the wound and unwound the roll, wrapping it around her thigh. Her gaze followed the gauze as it circled her skin, came up between her legs, and down again. His palm brushed her inner thigh, rough and warm. They fell into silence.
Arin came to the end of the gauze, which he threaded through its other layers and knotted to itself. He was done, yet didn’t move. The heels of his hands were against her knee, palms flush against her skin, fingertips skimming the gauze’s lower border. “Better?”
Her body felt lax and alive. She didn’t want to answer him. If she did, his hands would slide away from her.
“Kestrel?”
“Yes,” she said reluctantly. “It’s better.”
He stayed still. Outside, cicadas ticked and buzzed. He met her gaze, his eyes in shadow. His fingers traced a pattern that had nothing to do with healing and seemed to open her flesh in glowing lines.
Her breath caught. He heard it, and rocked back onto his heels and stood and crossed to the other side of the tent in one rapid motion before she could say anything. And then there was nothing, really, to say.
Arin sat near his bedroll. “What happened at the scouts’ station?”
Kestrel sank her hands into the leftover water at the bottom of the bowl. She rubbed at the bloody grime on her right hand, concentrating on it. That glowing feeling ebbed (inconvenient, she told it. Problematic. Now, of all times. What is wrong with you, that you can’t respect a friend who has asked not to be used? That every thing sparks and burns at the hope of his temptation. That maybe he’ll heed it, sink down into it, and it will comfort. It won’t, not for him. Maybe not even for you). She washed her hand clean.
Kestrel told Arin every thing from when she’d left camp last night to the moment when she drove a rock into the officer’s face. “I killed him,” she said, and would have said something else, yet faltered.
Arin frowned. “You feel guilty.”
“He wasn’t wearing armor.”
Arin flicked an impatient hand. “His mistake.”
“He cared about me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean Alis, the scout. He was concerned about her.”
“Are you saying that you’re sorry you killed him because he was a nice person?”
“I’m saying that he was a person, and he’s dead, and I did it.”
“I’m glad you did.”
“I’m not.” Now she was angry, too.
“Are you aware”—Arin’s voice hardened—“of what he would have done to you?”
