“Nearly there,” he whispers, shifting around to my front again.
Tears suddenly burn at the backs of my eyes, slipping down my cheeks before I can stop them. “I thought you were gone.”
“Never.” He smiles, leaning forward to continue massaging my shoulder as he takes my right hand and softly draws it forward and up. At the same time, he leans across to brush another kiss across my lips. It’s so much like the move he made against me when we first fought that it takes me back to our first encounter in the Misty Gallows. I drove my dagger toward his stomach. He pulled my dagger arm forward but past his torso so that I ended up plastered against him. That was the first time I inhaled his body heat, his caramel scent.
I swallow a sob, unable to hide my vulnerability. “I thought you were really gone.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” He presses his cheek against mine, smudging the tears trickling down the side of my face. Then he turns so his lips nudge mine, a gentle reminder that he’s right here, warm, alive, and determined to help me.
I’m covered in dust and blood. His clothing is still tattered and filthy, but his skin is clean. Even so, his kiss deepens as he continues to draw my arm up, placing my hand on his lowered shoulder. His fingertips press along the sleeve of my armor until both of his hands rest across my injured shoulder.
I sense my shoulder shift and the tension in my arm finally eases. A quick glance tells me that the joint is no longer pressing unnaturally to the front, even if I can’t see the swelling and bruising beneath my armor.
“There,” Nathaniel whispers against my lips, the same way he spoke when he first wrote his name on my face.
He lowers my arm to my lap and then his fingertips rise from my body for the first time since he started massaging my back.
Gripping the base of his shirt, he peels the torn material off his body. The deadly wound in his torso is healed, but I gasp at its appearance.
A small, crescent-shaped scar now sits above his heart.
It’s exactly the same as mine.
He gives me a wry smile. “We have the same scar.”
I’m shocked as I study it. “Always a mirror. Why does this happen?”
I’ve asked this question before. Along with why I glow when he touches me. The connections between us are far too strong to be caused by a Law I invoked only two days ago.
“We could chase answers. Or we could focus on the present,” he says with a gentle smile that tells me what he’s already told me: He doesn’t know.
Returning his attention to his torn shirt, he considers its structure before he rips sections of it to extend its length. Then he carefully wraps the makeshift bandage around my forearm and neck, creating a sling.
“That will do until I can make you a better one,” he says. “How does it feel?”
I allow the weight of my arm to settle into the base of the sling. “It’s fine.”
“Good. Go carefully from now on. No sudden movements.”
I reach for him with my left arm before he can rise—an awkward movement on my part. “Nathaniel… When do we have to fight?”
He sinks back onto the chair opposite me, his expression suddenly drawn. “The Vanem Dragon will come for us when he chooses. He will take us to the border to fight there. Like last night, it will probably be around midnight.”
“Then we only have twelve hours left. Possibly less.”
My statement falls into a chasm between us. I press my lips together, trying to stop the tears. I’m tired of pushing away my paralyzing fear and grief about the path I have to walk. “I can’t… This is not… How can we…?”
His big hand brushes my cheek. “Aura.” He closes his eyes. Presses his forehead to mine. Exhales quietly. “These remaining hours are ours. Nobody else’s. I want to spend them sharing everything with you that’s good about my world. There are places in the Misty Gallows where the streams flow and the moss is like emeralds. I want you to see that not everything here is ugly.”
I want to say ‘yes’ immediately, but reality presses in on me. “Cyrian still sits on your throne. You need to kill him before we fight.”
Nathaniel nods, a slow acknowledgement against my forehead, but he says, “We nearly died trying to fight him, Aura. I had a path that I walked, and now I’ve reached its end. Cyrian’s fate will be determined by the outcome of the battle between us. Until then, I don’t want to think about him—or Imatra—or any other person except you.”
“Okay,” I whisper, hoping it will be that simple.
He pulls back with a serious smile. “Then let’s start with a warm bath. We’ll find a way for Maggie to smuggle us some food after that.”
Capturing my free hand in his, he draws me to my feet and toward the bathroom, his footsteps slow and quiet. He checks my position as he moves, as if we’re running away together again. I guess we are. Running away from the future, trying to stop each passing minute.
Stay with me, Aura.
He draws me inside the bathroom, urging me to sit in the chair while he strides to the clawfoot bath that rests in the center of the room. Reaching for the cast-iron water pump located at the back of it, he pumps the lever, but he only fills it half-full.
Then he returns to me, eases my arm out of the sling, and supports my limb while drawing my armor the rest of the way down my torso and then my legs.
Every move he makes is careful. Silent.
His fingers linger on my skin. My shoulder, my bicep, my wrist, my waist, extending each touch like it’s the last.
Finally, my underwear lies on the floor, and I make my way to the bath. Sliding into it, I keep my arm pressed to my chest. The bath is full enough for me to slip beneath the surface, immersing my hair for a moment, but it’s shallow enough that I’m not forced to be completely submerged in the blood and dirt that wash off me.
Breaking the surface, I find Nathaniel kneeling beside the bath with a washcloth in hand. He sets about cleaning off all of the blood and dust that still coat my neck, face, hands—even my stomach where my skin was exposed. He is careful around the scrapes across my stomach and pays particular attention to the scratches across my face—including the cut on my chin where Tanner’s whip nicked me.
The water slowly turns red as Nathaniel’s blood and my blood wash away from me.
“The wounds are clean,” he murmurs. “I don’t see any signs of infection, but we’ll need to keep watch.”
I burned the ends of my hair last night when I removed the black dye that had hidden my identity for part of the day, and he pauses as he draws the cloth across the strands. This time, he doesn’t say anything.
He helps me out of the bath and wraps me in two towels—one around my body and another smaller one around my hair. After returning me to the chair, he drains the bath, refills it, turns his back to me to remove his clothes, and quickly disappears inside the bathtub.
Water splashes outside the tub as he slides beneath the surface.
The tug inside my chest is undeniable.
I need to be able to see him.
My feet move, taking me to the edge of the bath.
Nathaniel remains beneath the surface, his eyes closed, fists pressed against the inner sides of the bath to keep himself underwater. The liquid slowly turns red as the remainder of his blood washes off.