Total pages in book: 218
Estimated words: 205594 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1028(@200wpm)___ 822(@250wpm)___ 685(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 205594 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1028(@200wpm)___ 822(@250wpm)___ 685(@300wpm)
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.
I’m going to get Nemeth good and drunk so he’ll let me sew up his wing.
Chapter
Forty-Three
It takes three glasses of his mushroom wine and two chewed leaves before Nemeth loosens up. I watch him carefully, and after a while, the shine in his eyes seems to get fuzzy, and his lids get heavy. While I sit next to him, threading a needle, he reaches out for my braid and strokes a claw down it.
“So soft,” he murmurs. “Like petting a kitten.”
My brows go up. “How are you feeling, Nemeth?”
The smile he gives me is lazy and heart-stopping, his eyes closed. “Good. Except my wing. It hurts like dragon shite. But other than that, I feel good.”
Oh, is he borrowing my phrases now? Biting back a giggle, I hold three fingers up. “How many do you see?”
“I see three kitten claws,” he murmurs, taking my hand in his and kissing each fingertip as if to prove it.
All right. I think the leaves are definitely working. “I’m going to clean your wing and then sew it up, all right, love?”
He groans, the sound more reluctant than pained. “Must we?”
“We must,” I say firmly, amused. “This will be easiest if you lie on the floor next to me and I spread your wing over my lap. Can you manage that?” I get to my feet and grab one of the biggest pillows off the bed. By the time I turn around, Nemeth is on the floor already, his strange legs bent, and his head turned due to his sweeping horns. I tuck the pillow under his head and he tries to kiss my fingers again. “Not now,” I cajole. “You can kiss them after you’re stitched up.”
“Have you ever stitched up anyone before?” he asks as I make him comfortable on the floor, adjusting the pillow.
“I have not.” I’m bloody nervous about it, too. Terrified, really. What if I can’t do it? What if I’m too disgusted by the thought that I can’t pull the needle through his flesh? But if I don’t, there’s no one else that can.
“Then I am proud to be your first,” he says.
I snort. Now I know he is truly drunk. I settle in next to him, sitting on my knees, and I spread a towel in my lap. “Let’s just get you taken care of, all right? Spread your wing for me.”
He does, and I want to cry all over again at the sight of his poor mangled wing. How am I ever going to sew it so tightly that he’ll be able to fly again? I bite my lip hard enough to draw blood, determined not to panic. He needs me. He needs me.
I can do this.
“Is it very bad?” he asks in a hushed voice.
“Not so bad,” I lie, wiping more blood away and then applying a cleansing ointment sent by Riza for cuts and scrapes. “I’m trying to figure the best way to go about this. I think I can get the stitches tightest if I tack the sides together in a few spots, and then go back over to the smaller stitches to pull everything together like two pieces of fabric. All right?”
Nemeth doesn’t answer, and when I look over at him, he gives me a dreamy look. “You are so beautiful, Candra.”
I smile at that momentary distraction. “Thank you. I’m going to sew the first stitch now.”
He continues to watch me as I take the needle in hand and brace myself. Then, holding my breath, I make the first stitch. He doesn’t so much as twitch, and when I’m done, I expel a gusty sigh. All right. I can do this after all. “How are you holding up, love?”