“She didn’t. Not physically.”
“And that’s the deepest wound, you see? Her power against ours. I think it will hurt to heal this, at first. You have to trust me.”
“Then I will. For this.”
“Keep your eyes on mine. I don’t have what you have, but what I have will help you lift this away.”
He closed his hands lightly, gently, around her throat, covering the raw bruises.
It did hurt. A sudden shock of pain stole her breath, had her gripping the side of the bed to hold herself in place. She fought not to cry out—weak, weak—but a moan escaped.
“I’m sorry. A little more.”
He murmured in Irish now, words that meant nothing to her, but the tone, both comfort and distress, helped her bear it. Then, as the rest, it eased. The relief made her head spin.
“It’s better.”
“It needs to be gone. I won’t leave her mark on you. I should have stopped it.”
“You did. With blinding bolts of lightning. That’s enough. It doesn’t hurt.”
She shifted away, stood. “You should take the salve for the others.”
“That’s for you. I have more.”
“I’ll be down as soon as I get dressed. We all have a lot to talk about.”
“We do.” But he stood where he was, waited.
“You lied to me.”
“I never did.”
“The absence of truth—”
“Isn’t always a lie. Sometimes it’s just personal business.”
“I told you everything about me, everything I knew, and you . . . What are you? A warlock?”
He winced, had to struggle not to be insulted. “Some will insist on turning that word away from its origin—which is one who does evil, even the devil—and making into a man with powers. I’ll take witch, even sorcerer, but I prefer magician, which is what I told you when we met.”
Accusations, and worse, much worse, disappointed hurt lived in her eyes.
“You know what I thought you meant.”
“I do, and there’s an absence there. Still, I do stage magic to make a living and to entertain myself. And my blood, my craft, my gift, and my honor is in white magicks. But it’s considerable to share with someone who doesn’t trust her own gifts, fáidh. What would your reaction have been, I wonder, if I’d shown you more than a bit of sleight of hand at first?”
“I don’t know.”
“My family keeps our bloodline to ourselves, not out of shame, but caution. I can wish now I’d been able to show you what I am, who I am, in its entirety, in a less dramatic way, but Nerezza took the choice out of my hands.”
“She meant to drain me.”
“I never anticipated, and for that . . . I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t plan it better, or find a better way. But I can’t be sorry for what I am, or for waiting until I felt there was real trust before I told you, or the others.”
“Did you kiss me to help create trust?”
He cursed, surprising her with the quick flare of anger as he strode around the room. “That’s an insult to both of us. Bloody hell.”
He grabbed her, yanked her to him without any of the care or gentleness he’d shown in the healing. The flare of anger remained hot and ready in the kiss.
“You know it all now, so what was that about, do you suppose?”
“I have to think about it.”
“Fine then, you do that.”
“I’ll be down when I’m dressed.”
“That’s grand.” He strode out, gave the door a quick, bad-tempered slam.
She turned, walked to the mirror. No marks remained on her throat, and color had come back into her face. She didn’t feel weak now, Sasha realized.
And that was a damn good start.
* * *
Sawyer put his spin on sandwiches with grilled ham and cheese. Annika once again created a tablescape with napkins folded into flowers arranged along a winding river of plates. Once again wearing one of her flowy dresses, she stopped her work to turn and give Sasha a hard and heartfelt hug.
“You look pretty, and you feel better.”
“Thanks, and I do. Were you hurt?”
“Only a little, and Bran gave us a salve that smells very nice. Don’t have mad at him.”
“I’m working on it. Where’s . . . I can’t remember his name.”
“You mean Doyle. Doyle McCleary. Riding his dragon is fun. He came down, and he wanted to walk around the villa, to see the lay of the land.”
“Can’t blame him. Annika, thank you for helping me when I was hurt.”
“We’re here to help each other.”
As simple as that, Sasha thought. “You’re exactly right. Let’s have some wine.”
“I like wine.”
“I’ll get it.”
She went into the kitchen, where Sawyer flipped the last of the sandwiches onto a platter, and Riley pulled beer from the fridge.
“Dead-Eye here has hidden depths,” Riley said. “He made salsa.”
“Everything was here.” Sawyer turned. “Ready to eat?”
Sasha hadn’t thought she could face food, and now found the opposite true. “More than, and those look great. We’re missing Doyle and Bran.”