She must have interrupted his bath by almost dying because he was clean shaven for once. He had a strong chin, and jaw which looked even stronger when it was clenched with annoyance, as it was now. His brows were two raven slashes over those flaming eyes of his, and there was something about the set of his nose which made her feel particularly small when he looked down the length of it at her. His features were faintly noble, shaped a little too well for a commoner, no matter how much he tried to pretend to be one.
Bryn had secrets. Hail knew a lot of them, but she also knew that it was best to keep that knowledge to herself so he wouldn’t know that she knew. Being a lyrakin meant layers of secrets. Secrets all the way down.
Forty-five was not old, but most of the citizens she knew looked old by that age. The sun, the world, the wear of simply surviving carved deep crevasses into their faces and filled the rest of their skin with fine spider lines marking various moments of trauma. Bryn didn’t have as many as most. Part of that was down to the life of a lyrakin being lived in shadows. Much of it had to do with his good breeding. And some of it was due to the secret she wasn’t supposed to know, but did anyway.
Bryn wore what were supposed to be the clothes of the average man, but every garment gave his true nature away. He dressed in a leather cuirass and pants, covered by a fur cloak. The stitching was too neat and too well done. The wear on his elbows and knees was near nonexistent. There was a knife at his waist always, though she had never seen him draw it. Bryn had so many other ways of dealing with those who wanted to do harm to him, or his family.
She didn’t like having made him angry. Hail had truly believed that she’d be able to level her skills without him ever knowing. It had been a mistake to let the bearoark chew on her. She should have gone with a fox or similar.
“I’m no healer, but you’re going to need to see one. You’re as wounded as I’ve ever seen, my girl.”
Hail did not want to be Bryn’s girl at that moment. Being his girl meant being in serious trouble, especially when the words were uttered with that particular intonation.
He didn’t say another word as he worked on her broken body. She wished he’d say something, anything, but Bryn never spoke when he was angry—and right now he had to be furious.
“Are you going to whip me?”
He answered through gritted teeth. “I am going to make you so well-acquainted with the lash you forget what it feels like to be able to sit down. Don’t think your little healing tricks will work either.” He tapped a collar at her throat, a heavy piece of metal she had missed in all the many painful signals rushing through her body. “You’ve been locked down, lass. You so much as think of magic and that thing will make you feel like you’re on fire.”
“I know you’re angry, but…”
“I’m not angry, lass. I’m scared for you. You’re reckless. You have no regard for your own life. One day you’re going to do something I’m not going to be able to save you from.”
There was a weight to those words, spoken not as if he were imagining that future, but as if he knew it for absolute certain.
“I’m still alive, Bryn.”
“There are things worse than death,” her master growled. “I intend to do several of them to you when you’re healed enough to take them.”
She whimpered and pretended to sink back into the senseless state of the wounded. She knew she wasn’t fooling Bryn one bit.
Her master knew her better than she knew herself. He’d rescued her when she was just a scrap of a whelp, orphaned by war. He’d taken her in with a host of other orphans, provided them all a safe home and instruction. Hail was grateful to him for that. But she was a woman now, and entitled to make her own choices, even if Bryn didn’t like them.
His fingers worked over her body with skill and care, moving from her gut wounds to the ones on her thighs. The bearoark had not had any sense of modesty or place when it slashed her. There were wounds open on her inner legs. Bryn had cut her leggings off to tend to them, leaving her practically nude beneath his rough but caring hands.
Hail told herself she wasn’t enjoying this. She was badly wounded. It wasn’t hot to be stitched up by her big, gruff, angry master. There wasn’t a tingle low in her belly managing to exist in spite of her extensive wounds. It must have been the lingering effects of the healing spells. Or perhaps something in the herbal infusions he’d bathed her wounds with. It was anything, absolutely anything, besides a twisted attraction to the warrior who was practically her father.