Page 68 of Dare
“I’ve seen jaguars on other coasts, but not with saberteeth,” she mused. “Those ones hang past her chin.”
“Give me your arm,” I commanded.
In my former life, having to say more would have been unnecessary. A glimpse would have guaranteed obedience.
This female tossed an uninvested glance toward the scalpel knife I’d withdrawn. “Has anybody ever told you that your weapon is about as polished as your bedside manners?”
I lifted an eyebrow. “Has anyone ever told you I don’t give a shit?”
And for the record, my knife was not dull. This tiny minx was just trying to be snarky.
Her attention shifted from the blade to the green sludge I’d brought with me, the mixture newly ground and heated. Telling her it was a preventative earned me a hesitant look, so I took a seat beside her and explained about the treatment I’d recalled from the medical text, including details about the plant having been recorded during historic times. Although the bygone Summer remedy had gone extinct on the mainland, it had prevailed here, plausibly due to the forest’s undisturbed environment.
Pulverize, heat, insert. The poultice would seep into the blood and act as a lasting barrier against infections. Not all but a moderate amount, which was better than nothing. My leg injury, those cuts from the rainfall, and that odious story about how she’d lost her voice served as a reminder. With this humidity, wounds would be susceptible to festering. As it was, we had enough worries regarding nature’s influence. While I’d been inoculated from enough diseases to render me immortal, this rainforest and its fauna could transmit unforeseeable contagions.
None of which she’d be protected from. That fact thrust a bolt of alarm into my gut. What I wouldn’t trade for Winter’s surplus of syringes and vaccines.
“I tested it on myself,” I assured her.
Bitterness flashed in those eyes. “Isn’t that what so-called fools are for?”
For fuck’s sake. “Do as I say.”
“You tested it because I can die from it?”
“In the rare case,” I confirmed. “Without it, in the likely case. By the way, one of the ancients survived whatever virus claimed their brethren.”
She winced, compassion for the fallen cinching her features. But then she nodded, having drawn the same conclusion.
We hypothesized. The survivor must have composed the Summer song and brought it to the mainland. Feasibly, they’d hidden the map to commemorate this realm, paying homage while simultaneously preserving the wild’s anonymity. Back then, cultures held landscapes even more sacred than today.
But to leave this realm, they must have had access to transportation. Or they’d been found—by a “chosen one” who’d been called here, according to this dreamer who believed as everyone on this continent did. Though, if I pointed out how nature would never choose a born fool, she’d merely throw my argument back in my face.
I scoffed. “Shall we cut into you, then? I have other errands.”
Her eyes incinerated me. “You have less heart than a suit of armor.”
“We’ve established that already.”
Not unlike the last time she’d hurled a projectile at my head, the fool snatched a rock. My reflexes beat her to it, my palm seizing her knuckles. “Throw something at me again and I’ll slit off your fingers,” I said with deadly calm.
Flames rose up her neck, the hue imprinting to her forehead. “Give me back my hand.”
Then I felt it. Never mind that I had initiated contact, but the sensation of my palm covering her knuckles injected heat into my bloodstream. Her bare flesh trembled beneath my own, radiating like a combustible thing.
Yet she didn’t rip her fingers away. Nor did I respond immediately. Instead, we stared at one another, her breath rushing against my mouth with the intensity of a brushfire.
Seasons flay me. I prided myself on pacing, yet this delay exceeded my limits. It took far too long to react and even longer to withdraw.
Pulling myself together, I warned, “You will use those fingers to squeeze the rock for the pain. Nothing more.”
With caution, I backed off. At the same time, a pent-up exhalation left her mouth, and those long eyelashes fluttered.
My other hand clamped around the scalpel knife, its tip flashing. Breaking the trance, I clicked my eyes toward her arm in a silent request.
Lifting her chin, she extended that arm. With a spare cloth, I swiped water over her bicep, which was the best I could do to sanitize it. Her arm felt like a twig, yet it flexed—hard, alert, poised for a fight. I couldn’t fathom which urge was more tempting, to release this woman or grip her tighter.
“Relax,” I instructed, but to which of us?