“Does it hurt?”
She pulls her damp hair out of the way with her good arm. “It’s just a little tender.”
I place my hand gingerly over the mark and her pain hits me, bright and blinding. Harlow is a liar. She’s in agony. Now I wonder if she was really shaking from shock after all or if she was just in more pain than I realized.
I press my magic into the wound, keeping my gaze fixed on the skin knitting back together.
Her eyes burn into me. “Your aura flares when you’re working.”
I hum in agreement.
“It also flares when you’re feeling possessive.”
Her observant nature is irritating. I don’t like that she has the upper hand.
“I don’t feel possessive. I feel responsible.” It’s easier to lie to her than it is to lie to myself. “I told you that the men here need to understand that you’re mine and I’m not afraid to show them.”
“They can’t see magic.”
“But they can sense it.”
“How?” she asks.
“A prickling feeling. It’s difficult to explain.”
She goes rigid.
“The itching will be worse because the wound was worse.”
She nods, squeezing her eyes closed.
The wounds heal perfectly. I leave my hand there until she finally blinks her eyes open.
“It will be tender for another few days, so you’ll have to take it easy. Now let me see your wrist.”
Not waiting for her to argue, I take hold of it. She winces. Her pale skin is mottled with bruises that are varying shades of gray to me, but likely purple to her. My fingers brush a lump in the bone, and the blaring white pain lances my mind.
I grit my teeth. “This is broken.”
“I could have?—”
I set the bone, and she grunts, a guttural string of curses pouring from her mouth.
“Asshole.”
Taking her chin in my hand, I make her meet my gaze. “Don’t hide injuries from me.” I am so close to telling her that she can’t, but I don’t want to reveal anything about my magic in a fit of anger, especially when she already has the advantage of seeing auras.
I hold my hand over the broken bone and press the healing into her skin, down through the damaged tissue to the broken bone. Bones are harder to heal, slower, but after a few minutes, the break is mended, and I move on to reducing the inflammation around the injury.
I jump when she leans her forehead against my shoulder.
“I have never had an itch on the inside of my bones. Bleeding woods, that’s uncomfortable,” she murmurs.
The urge to apologize bubbles up, but I shove it down.
I remind myself that I don’t owe her anything. She is a means to an end. The moment I forget that will be my last.
15
