Page 12 of To Tame An Angel

Taking a hold of the base, the torn came out of him, leaving behind a gaping hole that flooded with dark blood.

Goddess Winter, I thought. No wonder he was limping.

Quickly, I cleaned the wound and pressed the ointment into him. I took my time and hoped he didn’t develop complications. I would still have to give him medicine and call the medic.

When his foot was properly bandaged, I moved to the other. It wasn’t as bad as the first one. No deep cuts or thorns. He didn’t fight me and aside from a few winces; he lay quietly while I finished my task. Once both of his feet were wrapped, I cleaned the cut he must’ve accidentally given himself when he unchained himself in this same room.

After his legs were finished, I slowly stood from the bed.

Inspecting his arms, I found welts and sliced skin from branches and rocks. His face was wet with sweat, but his eyes were steady on me. He watched as I cleaned his arms and shivered once or twice when I applied the disinfectant ointment and bandaged him up.

By the time I finished, he lay limp on the bed, his head resting on the sheets.

Without over thinking it, I touched his hair and caressed his scalp, patting him gently. He shifted to look at me. There was a soft sort of warmth that filled me, and I realized my magic was replenishing itself.

“You did well,” I said. “I’ll have to give you some antibiotics. That thorn was deep but you did well.”

He made no noise; his eyes were still slightly angry. As if it was my fault he stepped on the wrong bush.

“Would you like me to take off the gag?” I asked.

He looked as if he dared me to do it. I didn’t want him gagged for the branding. It was not supposed to be like that. It was supposed to be intimate and tender. Despite all my training, it was completely different when dealing with an individual.

Deflated, I decided to brand him later. I just didn’t know when. I didn’t know when he’d not want to kill me or run away once more. For right now, with his predicament, he was immobilized.

Walking to the fireplace, I removed the brand from the fire. It was bright cherry red, perfect for a quick press against his skin, but now wasn’t the time. It didn’t feel right. He watched me as I showed him the brand.

“Not tonight,” I said.

His shoulders visibly dropped, clearly relieved. This was the right thing to do. He was not ready yet. I was not ready yet. I knew the lessons; I knew the steps, but I had to be allowed to do things at my pace. At his pace. At our pace.

He needed water. The lessons kept flittering in and out of me. Filling a cup, I went to him and unlatched the muzzle. He shifted, sniffled, and licked his lips as he stared at me. He was still angry, but it was mixed with doubt.

“You need to drink, or you’ll dehydrate,” I said.

I brought the water to his mouth. The water dripped down his chin, but he was desperate for it, gulping it back harshly. When he finished, I wiped his mouth. His narrowed gaze found mine.

“I don’t want to gag you, but if you continue your tirade, I will,” I said in a serious tone.

He breathed deeply. “That fucking hurt.”

What did he expect? I set the cup down and looked back at him.

“I know, I’m sorry. But it had to be done.”

He scoffed, then sneered.

“Wounds must be treated,” I said.

“Wounds heal on their own. Thorns are expelled by the body,” he growled. “Cuts scab, ooze, then finally heal.”

“Ooze?” I asked, aghast.

He stared at me as if I were the imbecile who knew nothing of allowing infection to set in.

“Yes,” he hissed. “The pus that comes out.”

I shook my head, not believing he had such notions. “Pus means infection. Haven’t your wounds ever been cared for? Don’t they do this in the pits? Or at least allowed you medicine to do it yourself?”