Swift Magic (The Swift Codex Book 2) (37 page)

I sagged and thought of what it must have been like, wondering if another person had died, or more than one. How they had all worked so 'I' could turn on them in the end. Getting their hopes up. Squashing it. It was a burden of guilt I didn't want to think about. Would I be doing further damage by keeping on as I was by trying to help and by holding a grudge against them?

“Oh.” What else was there to say after that? The way they were all there, exhausted, bandaged. “Sounds like I had the better time of things. I just reset my own shoulder, survived the thunderstorm, and hiked here.” I shook my head, weary. “Look, do whatever you want to. I can't blame you if you don't want anything to do with me now. I won't take a prime spot to sleep for a while.”

“You sound like Number Three,” one of the battalion members said.

“Fine, whatever! I'm sure you've heard it all before. If you want to kill me in my sleep, do it without waking me, alright?”

“Definitely a Number Two comment.”

I gave up. Conversation was not my friend on this evening.

The circle I constructed was beyond flimsy. It did little to keep the scent of smoke out, and it just looked sick. I slept curled up within it anyway, nursing a packet of water, noticing no one had touched the rest. The smell of cooking food woke me, but the people huddled around the skillet didn't invite me over nor offer me any of the fish. Stomach growling, I turned onto my back and tried to ignore the pain in my shoulder.

“What do you think?” someone asked, voice low.

“I don't know,” came the reply. “The time isn't up yet.”

I turned back onto my left side, the movement catching my dress on a snag on the walkway. It tugged on my shoulder, bringing a wave of nausea. Only by clenching my jaw could I keep from crying out. My stomach churned, hungry, and it coincided with the nausea. I bolted upright and was sick over the edge of the walkway, nothing but dry heaves which made my shoulder worse.

“You're dehydrated. Here.”

Mordon offered a cup of drake's brew, the colony's recipe, according to the smell. I shook my head.

“Drink it. And rest.”

“I can't. It hurts too much.”

“Your shoulder?”

I nodded. Mordon put the cup down and pulled my dress to expose the shoulder, the boldness of the action hitching my breath. He felt my joint with questing fingertips, pain lancing through me with his every touch. Only biting my lip kept me from begging him to stop.

“Well this is a change,” he said.

“What is?” That was someone from the fire.

Mordon took my wrist, put a bare foot against my back, and before I could process what he was about to do, he twisted my arm and yanked. It wouldn't do it justice to say I screamed. The first time hadn't hurt at all by comparison, and the relief following the pain made me feel faint.

“What was that?” Leazar demanded, half-way between the fire and us.

“It seems that this particular Fera didn't reset her shoulder all the way.”

Tears streamed down my cheeks. This time I didn't try to stop them. The others stood up to crowd around, all jovial and smiling, and Mordon put a hand on my back. I staggered to my feet and stumbled backwards, gripping my shoulder.

“Get away. You can't treat me like that then expect me to be okey-dokey about it. Especially not you, Mordon, how would you feel if I were to do that?”

“I think I'd be pretty upset about setting that shoulder without warning,” Mordon said. And he was smiling.

“You can't apologize while you're poking fun at me. That's not an apology at all. And that hurt, a lot.”

“Was it a little uncomfortable?” Mordon asked, still smiling.

“A little uncomfortable?” I clenched my fist—then marveled that I was doing it with my right hand, the arm I'd been babying ever since I'd hurt it. I sniffed. “I'm still pissed off.”

“That works for me. Tear off some of that spider silk. I need to wrap up your shoulder so it doesn't come out again. Your sling wasn't near enough.” He thought about it. “You might have had it in place and it slipped back out while you were moving or sleeping.”

I didn't move to approach him. He curled his finger. “Come here, take your top off. Everyone else back to the fire.”

My cheeks burned. I grasped my throbbing shoulder even tighter. “No way.”

“Fera, now isn't the time to fight, and you don't want conflict.”

“Really? If you know me so well, what is it I want? Huh?”

We were being gawked at, and a couple of the battalion looked ready to spring on me if I made a move in the wrong direction. Mordon smiled, he gave me that smile, the one he kept for when we were in private and intoxicated on something other than wine.

“You want what I want, and you're upset that I pushed you away. Now come here so I can fix your shoulder and make you feel better.”

“not, that hurt, and you aren't going to start telling me what to do, especially not after thinking about killing me.”

“Does it feel better now?”

My nostrils flared at the way he hadn't paid attention to everything else I'd said. But there was no stalking away. The little group of people obeyed him, no questions asked, and they hadn't gone back to the fire yet because they were going to enforce Mordon's will even against me.

I stood my ground and asked peevishly, “Does what feel better?”

“Your shoulder.”

“Yes. But that's not the point.”

“But it is mine.” He grew serious. “Are you going to come here or am I going to have to get you?”

“Don't you dare lay a finger on me.”

He stepped forward. I took a half-step back, falling into a defensive stance. He lunged. I blocked his grapple, but he trapped my good hand and I didn't want to kick him, so he soon had me restrained with a painfully tweaked wrist, pressed flush against his chest. I took a breath to call him a name, knowing I'd feel bad about it later, and he kissed my parted lips.

I stiffened, not at all pleased about any of this, but he put a hand on the back of my head and held me right where I was. I muffled a foul word on his lips, he chuckled, and I did my best to glare. Beneath the urge to shove him away there was a part of me that liked this way he was handling this fight, the way he was physically handling me. A part of me that recognized he was bigger and stronger and frankly a better fighter than I was. A part of me liked the added zing of the twisted wrist, and I was ashamed of that, just like I was ashamed that he knew what I did want, and that I wanted it. There was a part of me that loved that even when I was trying, I couldn't scare him off, that he'd call my bluff. And there was a whole lot of me which realized my objections were my parent's influence, not my own. And that made me madder than anything Mordon had ever done. I kissed him back, to let him know with my teeth and tongue what I was feeling.

When I was my chest was heaving and his breaths came short and ragged, he pulled his lips off mine. Then his grip switched angles and he held me in a different restraint. The others had returned to the fire, as Mordon had instructed. It spared me a little embarrassment.

“Sit down.” He added pressure to my arm to let me know he was serious. So I sat, knowing to expect him to to tell me to take my top off again so he could bind my shoulder up right. We'd been through this before, I recalled, and not that long ago.

I rolled my eyes and eased the dress off my shoulders as soon as he let go of my hand. To my surprise he took off his tunic, leaving him only in trousers. His undertunic was already at half-length even before he decided to tear into it. The other half bound shallow gashes across his abdomen. I took my eyes away, guilt-ridden, then forced myself to look at the injuries.

“Not going to fight with me again?” he asked as he sat down so close our knees touched.

“No,” I said, finding my fingernails fascinating, thoroughly ashamed of my behavior.

“Too bad.”

His tone sounded light, teasing. He had a smile as he straightened the tunic strip in his hands. At my bewildered expression, he said, “Well, I thought that was fun. Didn't you? Not even a little?”

I didn't know what to say, so I just held out my arms so he could reach around my chest. While he was making careful work of tucking the first end beneath the wrap, I sorted out how I did feel. Had it been disrespectful of him to demand that I let my shoulder be treated? Was he not abiding by my wishes? Had I felt afraid? No, maybe or maybe not, and no again. Then I thought about his question while he positioned my shoulder and gave it a tug which made me gasp, both with pain and relief. He was all seriousness now, no flirting, nothing to make me feel like a female in his power. I smiled.

“Maybe,” I said, “it was just a bit fun to get you so riled up.”

Mordon paused. “Really?”

“Maybe I even enjoyed it,” I said and nipped the lobe of his ear. He exhaled, a relaxed smile touching his eyes. When he brought the wrap across my chest next, his fingertips skimmed over my hard nipples. Dizzy all at once, I whispered, “and maybe I'd like more of that,” and I kissed him.

***

The sun wasn't even up yet when I heard a sound I hadn't heard before, something that made me confused at first. It took me a minute to place, but when I opened up my eyes, I saw Mordon in the early morning light, sitting by the camp fire made of dried bits of the ruins, singing.

It was a folksy tune, low and like a monk's chant, and there was no doubt in my mind that he was happy. I laid still, pretending to be asleep, wanting to hear more. It seemed that in that instant, his soul emerged from the twirls of the smoke and knotted with mine, stripping the breath from my lungs and leaving in its place a peace and sense of fullness that I hadn't ever felt before.

I loved him. More than I'd ever loved him before, more than I'd ever thought possible. It was a selfless love, a love encompassed fully of him and who he was. What or who I was didn't matter, what I thought didn't count. For once in my life, I realized wholly how selfish I had been. I realized what it meant to want to serve another, what it meant to be willing to obey. I'd always had a snide sort of obedience, a way where I was achieving my own means. But in that instant, I knew that if he told me to go jump off a cliff, I'd do it because I trusted and believed in him. If he told me he needed something, I'd give it to him, not because I was afraid of what he'd do if I didn't, not because I felt I needed to, not because I thought it was in my best interest or that I'd get something in return. Because I had no doubts of his intentions. Because I had nothing to fear from him. Because if he said he needed something, he needed it. And I wanted to fill his needs and desires. I wanted to overfill them.

I'd never felt like that before.

And I didn't know why I felt it now. I just knew it was true. Not that it would be easy. Not that at times I wouldn't slip and doubt him.

Now I knew that I needed to give him the breathing space he wanted. Stop pressuring him for my wants. Start showing him the support and encouragement he thrived on. He'd been doing a lot of that for me, and I couldn't think of a time I'd been very reciprocal.

“Morning, Love,” I said, and sat alongside him. He put his arm behind my back and kissed my neck.

“Morning, you,” he said. “I haven't started any brew yet.”

“No matter.”

“Bit early for you to be up.”

“Your singing woke me. You've a beautiful voice.”

“You like it?”

“I like it. And that you've got reason to be so happy.”

His arm tensed about me and his voice became gruff. “Am I happy?”

“I hope so,” I said. “With me, anyway. I'm sorry I was such a grouch yesterday.”

“I think it turned out to mutual satisfaction.”

I bumped him. “Just a little.”

Mordon appraised me from head to hip. “You're into rough play.”

“Guess so.”

There was no denying that he was pleased, though he did try not to look it. “Well, then,” he said. “If it's ever too rough, tap out or say banana.”