“I’m fine,” I reiterate. It’s bad protocol for patients to think the healer is losing it or doubting themselves.
“You can tell me,” he whispers. “We’re a team.”
“We are a team. The best team.” At that his hand drops away and his eyes close. It’s only minutes later, but I finish sewing up the slash. It’ll leave a brutal but clean scar surrounded by smaller cuts and blooming bruises. I clench my hand, a limp tingling sensation alerting me of my impending burnout. At least I closed his wound.
“Kalyan?”
He groans in answer and then falls silent. The water wall peters out, but the rain has stopped for the most part, only last-minute drops, slow to the party, sprinkling on us.
“Kalyan?”
No answer. I check his pulse and bend over his mouth. After a jolt of terror, his breath brushes my cheek. Unconscious, then, too much shock for his body or too many numbing spells from me. Thank Gods. If he had died…
I push his wet hair from his forehead. He looks kind, even asleep, even in pain. Catching myself smiling I snatch my hand back. Dear Gods, it’s too late for me. I’m in love with him.
I awaken damp, sore, and with the sun streaking into my face. I adjust, seeking warmth and curling into it. Then last night’s events tumble into my memory. My eyes fly open to find Kalyan: half-naked, one arm around my middle, cuddling me to his side. I spring and flinch and start all at the same time. Shop owners and others hungry to start the day swamp the street below. Carts rattle, goats and sheep bleat, right below the roofline a customer haggles over the price of turmeric.Oh my bloody—
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, don’t worry. I cast an illusion spell. People are seeing an empty, undestroyed roof,” he says.
The smear of white smoke shimmers in front of us. “Oh,” I manage.
Kalyan tries to rise, but cringes and hisses through his teeth. “Oh blood. Yeah, that hurts.”
“Careful or you’ll rip it open.” My hands immediately go to his side and then realize how intimate…I mean, I tore his kurta open last night. And the other realizations from last night fog my brain. I feel like I’ve been drenched with heat and awkwardness. Or maybe that’s the burnout.
I whip my hands back. “Do you mind if I…”
“Check the stitching that saved my life? By all means.”
I peer at the scar, which is only a nasty stitched line now. It’s as good as, if not better than, my mother’s handiwork. Gods, how much magic did I pour into this? “It’s not infected.”
He stares at me and I wipe my face and pull back my hair. I’m probably beyond a mess. I wish he would look away and imagine me without the cuts, the bruises, and the sleep deprivation. “What?” I finally ask.
“Has anyone told you that you snore?”
My mouth drops open and my face ignites. “Do I?”
His eyes crinkle as he laughs. “Just a little.”
“How long have you been awake?”
“A while.”
“And you let me sleep on you?”
He shrugs. “You burned out.”
“You’re the one that…Wait, how do you know I burned out?”
“You get really hot when you burnout.”
That means he felt my body, pressed against his. I look away, my face flaming.
“How you feeling?” he urges as if this isn’t embarrassing. As if our act of passing out against each other is nothing unusual. As if I’m not engaged to his raja…Oh Gods.
I stare at my Touch to avoid his gaze. Red smoke lights up my fingertips. “I’m able to cast, but still pretty out of it.”
“Yeah, and tomorrow you have to fight.” He rubs his eyes.