Kinked

He stamped on that last bit with the whole force of his personality. “You made me a promise that you were going to make it, no matter what,” he growled. “And you will. You will not endanger your mate.”

He held her gaze until, blinking rapidly, she nodded, glanced away and then back at him. “You look terrible,”

she said, her voice unsteady. “Why haven’t you gotten out of that armor yet? You must be baking in this heat.”

He fingered the scab on his cheek as he told her, “I’ve been postponing it. I think the tunic underneath has stuck to my chest.”

Her eyes widened in horror. “You just left it stuck to you? Oh gods, where is a knife?”

“You can’t cut it off,” he said, baffled. “I think it needs to be soaked.”

She waved a hand impatiently at him as she looked around. Eventually she settled on one of the short swords and knelt on her good knee beside him, her other leg awkwardly propped to one side. They used the tip of the sword to cut carefully at the fastenings between the plates, which had swollen from his swim in the salt water. Then they stripped the pieces off of him one at a time. He breathed a deep sigh of relief as the last piece, the damaged breastplate, came away without any trouble.

They looked down at his chest where the tunic was indeed stuck to the giant scab.

Aryal’s good hand snaked out. She ripped the tunic off of him.

Fresh fire exploded across his chest.

“GAAAAHHH!” he roared furiously, his fists clenched. “Why did you do that?!”

“Isn’t that better?” His demonic mate held up both hands in a placating gesture. “See, it’s done now, it’s all done. We can put it in the past and move on.”

“What ever happened to ONE-TWO-THREE!” he shouted.

“That’s a vastly overrated system. I never recommend it. The element of surprise is always best.” She patted at the air, her expression turning worried as she eyed his raw, bleeding wound. “Er, can you do something about that now? You can cast a healing spell on yourself, right?”

His energy had picked up after eating and drinking, but he didn’t feel in the mood to reveal that to her right away. He snarled, “I used up everything I had on healing you, dumb ass, which you would have found out if you had talked to me first.”

Her eyes widened in dismay. “Oh God, did you really?”

Inside, his dark sardonic sense of humor had started to chuckle. He told her pathetically, “We’ve got nothing to clean this wound with, and nothing to use as a bandage. I guess we could tear off a corner of the sail and use that if we had to.”

Her dismay turned to outrage. “We’ll do no such thing! That sail has got to be filthy, and besides, it’s thick, rough canvas. We might as well take handfuls of sand and throw it all over you!”

“What am I supposed to do, sit here and bleed?”

She made a face and looked with dread at the steep path that cut up the bluff. “We’ll have to get up there somehow. We’ll need fresh water soon anyway, and somewhere there’ll be something suitable that we can use as a band—”

He cast a light healing spell on himself. The bleeding slowed to a stop as the wound scabbed over.

Her mouth shut with a click and pursed up tight. She accused, “You did that on purpose.”

“You think?” He looked over the water and his jaw angled out. “I can’t stand it any longer. I’ve got to get clean. Or at least cleaner. And if you think I look bad, you should look in a mirror.”

“No need. What I can see of myself is bad enough.” She gazed longingly at the water as well. “Are you too mad at me to help me up?”

“Of course not, stupid.” He stood, held his hands out to her and pulled her upright. Her leg, still in the too- long longbow splint, canted to one side at a sharp angle.

“I’m sick of this awful splint,” she snapped. “I might as well cut it off and be done with it.”

“Not yet,” he said. “Give it another night to be on the safe side. And even then you should keep your weight off that leg.”

He put an arm around her waist and helped her hop to the water. Then they both submerged, clothes and all, and rubbed at themselves and each other to clean off as best they could. Aryal scooped up handfuls of sand to scrub the worst of the dried blood out of her hair and skin.

They didn’t take long at the task. He didn’t want to risk losing his scabs again if they got too soaked with the salt water, and neither one of them had any business being on their feet for long. If they had been home in New York, they would have been in a hospital.

Afterward they helped each other back to their “tent.” Quentin was so exhausted he could barely stay on his feet, and from her pale, set expression, she wasn’t any better. Probably, given the state of her injured wings, she was a lot worse.

I hurt so bad, and I’m so tired, and all I want is another hug from you.

He swallowed, stroking her wet hair, and kissed her forehead. She hopped into a turn and leaned on his good shoulder while he held her. He whispered, “I should try to find wood for a fire.”

“Don’t bother,” she mumbled. “It’s warm enough and we’ll air-dry. I just don’t want to lie in the sand again in these wet clothes.”

He pulled at the half-unfolded sail so that it lay spread out on the sand. He said sourly, “Behold, a bed.”

“It’s better than the cell.”

“Maybe, but not by much.” He helped her ease down onto it and then joined her, making sure that she was on his good side. Groaning, he lay back and held out his uninjured arm. “Come here.”

She eased over gingerly and fit herself against him, and he hugged her tight as his world settled into rightness. Her body shook with a deep sigh. She pressed a kiss to his bare shoulder and draped her arm across his waist.

“We should be okay enough by morning to sail back,” she muttered. “Maybe avoid the path up the bluff altogether. Don’t you think?”

“I do.” But they didn’t have to face that right now.

The sun had set and the worst of the heat had gone out of the day. A steady breeze still blew off the water, and his trousers felt cool and clammy while his burns felt fiery hot. The sand felt hard and lumpy underneath him, and he had rarely been so uncomfortable.

While he had never been so happy.

Still, despite Aryal’s reassurances, he was worried about her. The more time passed, the more likely it was that she would sustain permanent damage to her wings. He was ready to start back home and anxious to see what help they could get for her. But that was another task for tomorrow. For now, as her body grew lax against him and her breathing deepened, he was just thankful they had survived another day. He pulled a corner of the sail over their legs to block off the breeze and fell into another profoundly deep sleep.

Something roused him. A sound, or a great movement in the air. He blinked his eyes open, or tried to anyway, and ended up squinting as his healing eye had gummed up again.

The sky had paled with the beginning of dawn. A large, winged form angled down and landed, along with another. Then another. Wyr gathered around them, shapeshifting into their human forms. Each of them carried backpacks and bristled with weapons.

Quentin poked Aryal gently in the shoulder. She woke and lifted her head to look around.

Almost all the sentinels had come. Alex, Bayne, Constantine. Grym. No Graydon, who must have been the one to draw the short straw to stay on duty in New York.

Dragos had come too, along with Pia and Eva. Pia carried Liam in a baby harness. Linwe was also with the group.

Quentin had never seen Dragos look so flummoxed. Despite the many differences in temperament and personality in the group, every one of them wore an identical expression of blank incredulity as they drew close and stared down at the couple entwined on the beach.

Quentin drew a deep breath. Yeah, well. There was that.

Aryal offered in a helpful tone, “He has issues.”