I don’t point out that the sucking on him would be for my pleasure, as well. That just thinking about it is making my heart flutter with anticipation and that the flutter has lodged itself between my thighs.

“I would not bargain for such a thing,” Nemeth says, voice stiff. “I would never force you to service me⁠—”

“Give me your hand,” I say, holding mine out. I set the lamp down on the floor nearby and gaze up at him.

“Candra—”

“Give me your hand,” I say again. When he sighs and does as I ask, I hike up my skirts with my other hand and then guide his big palm under my layers of clothing, pressing him to the vee between my thighs. I’m slick and aching there already. “Does that feel like I’m being forced to service you?” I tilt my head up at him. “Or that I’m excited to reward a strong warrior who’s saved me twice now?”

“You…are utterly impossible.”

“Yes, I am,” I agree. “Now let me see your wound so I can take care of it for you.”

Nemeth grumps and fusses at me as we head up the stairs.

“You do not need to tend my wound,” he says in that stuffy voice as I move into our quarters ahead of him. “It will heal on its own. Nor do you need to offer your mouth as incentive. That is not appropriate.”

“Mmm. But I’m going to do both anyhow,” I reply, setting the lamp upon one of the tables. I tap the other one to turn it on, flooding the chamber with more light. Moving to the fireplace, I hang a pot over the empty firepit and bend down to start a fire, deliberately ignoring Nemeth. I’m going to give him time to adjust to the idea of me tending to him, however much he might dislike it. If his wound gets infected, I’ll be left alone in this tower, and I refuse to let that happen.

Once the fire is lit and licking at the wood, I pour water from a pitcher into the pot so it can heat up. I glance over at Nemeth, ready to argue with him if necessary. The big Fellian is seated on his favorite stool, his posture stiff and upright, a mutinous look on his face. I don’t get why he’s acting like I’m suddenly the enemy. It must truly be in an uncomfortable spot, this wound, and I remind myself to be patient with him. He’s a male, even if he’s Fellian, and they’re sensitive about their cocks.

I look him over again. He’s seated upright with his thighs parted, straddling the stool. Are his thighs farther apart than usual? Is that because of the wound there? Sympathy rushes through me and I dip the cloth in the warm water, then move to his side. “All right. Lift your kilt.”

Nemeth gives me a shocked look. “You…you are going to suck my cock now?”

Does he really think now is the time? I find it interesting he’s no longer averse to such an offer, just the timing of it. “Tempting, but I’m actually going to clean your wound for you, and save the cock sucking for when it’s recovered. But I can’t help you if you don’t show me where you’re hurt.” When he yet hesitates, I step between his thighs and reach for the edge of his kilt. “I promise I’ll be gentle.”

He grabs my hand again, stopping me with a puzzled look on his face. “And you think it’s between my thighs?”

“Where is it, then?” Where is this shameful wound if not in a private area?

Nemeth sighs heavily and runs a clawed hand down his face. Then, still covering his expression, he extends one wing out to the side.

I see it, then. A horrible, ugly gash that slices down through the delicate membrane of his wing. One of the men must have lunged at him with the pickaxe and dragged it through his wing, tearing it apart. The cut looks horrid, as long as my arm and extends all the way down to the edge, where it continues to drip blood. “Oh,” I breathe. “Oh, Nemeth.”

“There is nothing to be done for it.” He hangs his head. “It was my fault. A warrior knows he must always protect his wings in battle, but I wanted to frighten them with my size, to distract them away from you.”

And it worked, too. Once Nemeth appeared, they had no interest in me.

Tears pricking my eyes, I lean in and press my fingertips to his chin, forcing his face up so he looks at me. “Thank you,” I tell him in a soft voice. “It was very gallant.”

“It was pure foolishness, and now I will pay for it.” He grimaces. “My father would be ill-pleased.”

“He’s not here.” I kiss his hard, unforgiving mouth. “He doesn’t know our situation.” I kiss him again, nibbling on his lip, because I love the feel of him against me. “And I’m grateful, even if I hate that you got hurt. May I tend to you?”

“Oh, so now you ask with sweet words?” His voice is wry as he gazes up at me. “You no longer demand?”

I cannot help but grin. “You respond best to demands. Maybe I should.” But I don’t. I just nip at his lower lip again, scraping my teeth over it, and then I lift my head. “I promise I’ll be gentle.”

Nemeth makes a choked sound as I reach for his wing. He grabs my hand, stopping me first. “Wings are…sensitive.”

Right. And this one is wounded and he’s getting all squirmy. “You’re allowed to get turned on. I won’t judge you.”

He scrubs a hand over his face again and shifts in his seat. “I don’t think I’ll get turned on, but I might get twitchy. Fair warning.”

So he’s going to wriggle like a naughty little boy? I can deal with that. I move toward his wing and he extends it out—then hisses with pain. I’m careful as I gently brush the cloth over the wound. The angle of treating him is odd and uncomfortable, but I give it a shot anyhow, wiping away the excess blood and examining the gash. The membrane looks thick enough to hold a stitch, and I wonder if I can sew it up. As I consider it, the wing stretched in front of me gives a shiver.

I glance over at Nemeth. He wears a rictus of concentration, his eyes squinted and his nostrils flared. His fists are clenched on his lap. “Are you all right?”

He responds with a distracted grunt.

I turn back to his wing, watching him out of the corner of my eye. Sure enough, the moment he thinks I’m looking away, he reaches for the front of his kilt and adjusts himself. And when I touch his wing again? It jerks under my grasp.

“Ticklish?” I ask.

He scowls at the word. “It just…feels like a lot.”

“It might feel like a lot more in a moment, because I think I should sew it up.” I set the blood-stained wet towel down and give him a calm look, even though my heart is fluttering at the thought of having to sew flesh. “You can’t let it just hang open like that. Your wing will be destroyed.”

“My wing is already destroyed.”

“Not necessarily,” I bluff, though I don’t know anything about wings. He might be right, but that doesn’t mean I want to give up hope. “I’ll make very tiny stitches and we can at least try to save it. We’ll clean it daily and rub some salves on it to help with the scarring. Are you all right with that?”

His nostrils flare again, and I can tell by his expression he is very much not all right with it. His wing closes again. “I will think about it⁠—”

I put a hand on his chest. “No. You’re going to let me do this. There’s no thinking about it. If you wait, it will almost certainly get infected, and if it scabs over like this, your scarring could be much worse.” I know about as much about scars as I do wings, but it sounds good to my ears. “So you’re going to let me tend to you.”

“With a needle?” Nemeth sounds faint. “On my wing?”

I nod. “You’re probably going to want to be numb for this. Where’s that fermented mushroom brew of yours?”

“That’s for cooking.”

I get to my feet. “But it’s alcoholic, right? Today it’ll be for you.” There’s an herb that I’ve experimented with in the past (because I’m a shameless, naughty princess), when I was only allowed a cup or two of wine, one that amplifies the sensation of being drunk. It’s good for sleep, too, which is why I have a supply, but it’ll also help with today.