Innocent Blood(51)

“I don’t wish you to see my face,” she said, her voice a harsh rasp.

“But I can help you.”

“Let Nadia do it.”

“Why?”

“Because”—she shifted farther away—“my appearance will disgust you.”

“Do you think I care about such things?”

“I care,” she whispered, her words barely louder than a breath.

Honoring her wishes, he left her hood alone and took one of her burnt hands in his, noticing her palm was untouched. He pictured her clenching her hands in agony as the sunlight engulfed her in fire. He leaned against the stone blocks and rested, keeping hold of her hand.

Her fingers slowly closed over his own.

A deep weariness filled the marrow of his bones. Pain told him where he had been wounded—lacerations across his shoulders, scrapes on his forearms, a few burns on his back. His eyes began to drift closed when a quick knock thumped the door. A key turned in the lock, and the hinges complained.

Nadia stepped into the room. She frowned upon seeing Rhun’s hand clasped to Elisabeta’s, but she said nothing. She carried an earthenware bowl covered with a brown linen cloth. The smell rolled across the cell, filling the space.

His body quickened, and Elisabeta growled next to him.

Blood filled that bowl.

Warm, fresh, human blood.

Nadia must have collected it from a volunteer among the castle staff.

She crossed to the pallet and handed him the bowl.

He refused to take it. “Elisabeta would prefer it if you tend to her wounds.”

Nadia arched one eyebrow. “And I would prefer not to. I already saved her royal life. I will do no more.” She slipped free a leather flask and held it out to him. “Consecrated wine for you. Do you wish to drink it now or after you have tended to Countess Bathory?”

He set the flask down on the table. “I will not let her suffer a moment longer.”

“Then I will fetch you soon.” She retreated to the door and out again, relocking the cell.

A moan from Elisabeta returned him to his task.

He soaked the linen cloth in the bowl, sopping it heavily with blood. The iron scent drifted into his nostrils, even as he held his breath against it. To steady himself against a craving that rose from his bones, he touched his pectoral cross and muttered a prayer for strength.

He then picked up the hand he had been holding and slid the cloth along it, the fabric grazing her skin.

She gasped, her voice muffled by the hood.

“Have I hurt you?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Don’t stop.”

He bathed one hand, then the other. Where he touched, blisters fell away and raw skin healed. Once done, he finally reached for the edge of her hood.

She grabbed his wrist with her bloodstained fingers. “Look away.”

Knowing he could not, he drew the hood back, revealing first her white chin, streaked with grime and pink from the burn. Her soft lips had cracked and bled. The blood had dried in black rivulets from the corners of her mouth.

He steeled himself and pulled the hood fully away. Candlelight fell on her high cheekbones. Where once clear white skin had invited his touch, now he saw blackened and blistered ruin, all overlaid with soot. The soft curls of her hair were mostly gone, burned away by the sun.

Her silver eyes met his, the corneas cloudy, nearly blind.

Still, he read the fear there.

“Am I hideous to you now?” she asked.

“Never.”

He soaked the cloth and brought it to her ravaged face. Keeping his touch light, he ran it across her forehead, down her cheeks and throat. Blood smeared her skin, soaked into blisters, and stained the white pillow under her head.

The smell intoxicated him. Its warmth tingled his cold fingers, heated his palms, inviting him to taste it. His whole body ached for it.

Just one drop.

He stroked the cloth down her face again. The first pass had mostly just washed the soot away. He now attended to her damaged skin. He bathed her face over and over again, watching in wonder each time as he wiped away the damage—and unblemished skin slowly appeared. A field of black curls took root, shadowing her scalp with the promise of new growth. But it was her face that enchanted him, as flawless as the day he had fallen in love with her, in a long dead rose garden beside a now ruined castle.

He traced her lips with the soft fabric, leaving behind a thin sheen of blood. Her silver eyes opened to him, clear once again, but now smoky with desire. He bent his head toward her lips and crushed them with his own.

The taste of the crimson fire spread through his body, as swiftly as a match set to dry grass. She threaded blood-wet fingers through his hair, enfolding him in a cloud of hunger and desire.

Her mouth parted under his kiss, and he lost himself in her scent, her blood, her softness. He had no time for gentleness, and she asked for none. He had waited so long to join with her again, and she with him.