She reached for the blanket again, and this time he let her, not because he trusted her, but because he sensed she wasn’t totally lying. There was something wrong with him, some kind of infection making him weaker than he should be. Something he should have healed from on his own.
She pushed the blanket aside to reveal his bare leg. Cool air washed over his skin, reminding him he was naked beneath the fabric and covered in a thin layer of sweat. A shiver racked his body.
But the cold was quickly replaced by heat. Surprised, he looked down to see her kneeling in front of him, much like the nymphs yesterday. But unlike them, she wasn’t teasing. Her soft fingers carefully removed a bandage from around his thigh, one he didn’t remember receiving. And every brush of her hand against his leg sent awareness spiraling all through his limbs.
She pulled the cloth away, then her warm, electric touch skimmed the outside of a jagged, already healing incision.
“Hmm.” She moved away, and chill air swept over him again, but then she was back, kneeling in front of him once more, her body inches from his, her heated touch sending another shiver down his spine, this one not from the temperature.
Blood rushed into his cock, proving he wasn’t as sick as he thought. He fought back his body’s reaction as her warm breath tickled his skin, bringing the hairs along his leg to attention. She smoothed some kind of ointment over the incision, and he sucked in air when warm tingles spread through his skin and permeated his muscles. But they didn’t shoot straight to his groin as they had yesterday. This was a healing warmth, not an arousing one. At least the balm was. She was another matter entirely.
He was quiet while she wiped her hands on a rag, then reached for fresh bandages from a bag near her feet. Her blonde hair hung past her shoulders, one thick blue streak brushing her temple as she looked down at her work. Her skin was shades darker than his, like warm, gooey caramel, and he found himself fascinated at the contrast. Fascinated again by her—who she was, how she’d come to be in a hellhole like this, and what she was doing with a sick fuck like Zagreus.
“You smell like him,” he muttered.
“And you smell like sweat,” she answered, not looking up. “Neither of us are getting any awards for how we smell.”
For some reason, that eased the knot growing in the pit of his stomach. Then he saw the marks on her wrists. Cuts and bruises he knew all too well, because he lived with them daily thanks to the restraints. Cuts and bruises that hadn’t been on her skin earlier.
“What happened to your wrists?”
Her fingers faltered on the bandage, then she resumed wrapping and secured the end. “Nothing.”
Bullshit it was nothing. His gaze traveled up her arms, to the collar of the long-sleeved, too-big T-shirt she wore. The neck gaped open, showing just a hint of skin above her breasts. Skin that also looked inflamed. Reaching out with his cuffed hands, he hooked his finger in the collar and tugged so he could see better.
She’d been struck there, with a whip or flogger, he couldn’t tell which.
She jerked back and slapped a hand over her chest, pressing the shirt closed. Disbelief flashed in her eyes, followed by a quick burst of horror she masked quickly.
She pushed to her feet and glared down at him. “I could have you beaten for that.”
“You already have.” And suddenly, a beating was the least of his concerns. His gaze skipped to her wrists. “What did he do to you?”
She grasped her supplies from the floor and shoved them back into the bag, averting her eyes, moving quickly now to get away from him. “Nothing I didn’t ask him to do.”
He’d hit a nerve. There was more she wasn’t saying. A lot more. That feeling that she was as much a prisoner in this hell as he slammed into Nick again.
“Your infection is down,” she said, still not looking his way. “You’ll be fine in another day.”
She grasped the bag, crossed to the door, and slid a key into the lock from the inside. Nick wanted to ask what, exactly, they were healing him for, but then his gaze rolled over her. Over her frazzled appearance, the dark circles under her eyes, and her unkempt hair. And he realized she was exhausted. She obviously hadn’t slept much, and it had to be morning. She’d come to him sometime in the night and stayed.
He wanted to ask why. Why it had been her, why she hadn’t sent someone else, why she even cared if he lived or died. But he couldn’t. Because part of him didn’t want to hear the answer. And another part—the dark part—didn’t want to give her any reason never to come back.
Metal scraped metal, the hinges creaked, and then the thick steel door swung inward. She took one step into the corridor.
“Cynna.”
Her feet stilled, but she didn’t turn. And in the silence, Nick’s pulse shot up. It was the first time he’d said her name, and he liked the sound of it. Liked the way it rolled off his tongue. Liked—more than anything—that she reacted. And suddenly wanted to hear her say his name back in that sinful voice of hers. Just once.