I raced to the edge of the woods, ignoring the stabbing in my side. The moment we breached the trees, I spread my wings and took to the sky, racing to the shuttle. Bartholomew shivered from the cold or pain or fear—I wasn’t sure which—and I needed to get him inside, away from any threat.
Landing near the shuttle, I carried him in. I set him down and yanked the door closed. Without speaking, I picked him up again and took him to our cabin. Bartholomew made no noise the entire time. Was he hurt? How badly? Or was he angry with me?
The kiss had been a necessity to force the stranger away. The intensity had not been. He hadn’t wanted me to kiss him, and while he’d initiated it, I had pushed the intensity, overwhelmed by the feel of him. Perhaps I’d gone too far. I shouldn’t have, but I was unable to resist him.
I put him in the tent and crawled inside to join him. I wanted to press my lips against his and continue what that kiss had wrought inside me, but I didn’t. I would never hurt Bartholomew. Ever. No matter if he chose Vince over me, I would respect his boundaries, even if it killed me, which it would.
Drakcol didn’t often survive the rejection or loss of their mate, and I could not live without Bartholomew.
“Are you injured?” I asked, hands fisted on my thighs.
He stared blankly at me like he didn’t understand.
“Bartholomew?”
He did not answer. He lay on the mat, not speaking, eyes distant and muscles tense.
Gently, I nudged his cheek with the back of my finger. “Please. I need to know that you aren’t hurt.”
Bartholomew flinched, and I dragged my finger away. He said, “My shoulders.”
“Shoulders?” Had the other person scratched him?
“Back.”
That made sense. He’d been knocked to the ground. His chin was cut and flecked with red blood.
“My elbows.”
Once again, that confused me. “Can I see you?”
He didn’t answer. Was he in shock?
“Can I see?” My eyes flicked to the cut on his chin once again. I needed to lick that clean. Ineededit. My instincts demanded I bathe the injury. “Flower, can I lick your chin?”
He blinked, not responding.
I had explained this to him before about the instinct to clean wounds. “Please. I need to.”
Jerkily, he nodded.
I leaned over him, my hair surrounding us like a curtain, which made this moment feel even more private like we were the only two people in the universe. Bartholomew reached up to cup my cheeks, and I had to fight the urge to place my lips on his. Until he allowed me to, I wouldn’t kiss him again. I pressed my lips against the wound on his chin, and he gasped. I licked the cut and the metallic sting of his blood played on my tongue. His kiss had tasted like this. Had he cut his tongue?
I swallowed the instinct to investigate. Instead, I focused on slowly licking his chin, dragging my tongue over the length of the cut, cleaning any grit out of the wound. Bartholomew moaned, his hold tightening. My cock twitched and began to harden at the quiet sound of my mate.
Harder, I dragged my tongue over the injury, making him cry out, “Mindy.”
“Yes?” I whispered against his chin. I licked him again. “What, my perfect Flower?”
Bartholomew didn’t respond.
I bathed the entire area, then leaned back, satisfied. The rough skin would heal in time. “Can I see the rest of you? I need to know how hurt you are.”
“A-are you going to lick me?”
Stars, I’d give anything to suck his cock and drink his seed, but that wasn’t what he meant. I answered, “I will clean all your injuries.”
His breath turned even more jagged.
