Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 75650 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75650 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
I worry that it matters now. Then again, I worry about a lot of stupid stuff.
It’s just…what if his memories aren’t the only thing that’s gone? What if his love for me disappears, too? What if, now that he no longer has our memories of resonance, he doesn’t feel anything for me anymore? That this is just a sense of duty rather than affection? I’m so full of self-doubt that I can’t think straight.
I finish the quickest, unsexiest bath ever and toss my spare tunic on. I braid my wet hair tightly and bind it with a tie, trying not to watch him as he adds more snow to the pouch so he can bathe. Maybe I should go to bed and leave him to his bath. The last thing he needs is me staring at him like a creepy, sex-starved mommy. Which is what I am, but hey.
I linger around the fire because I can’t quite bring myself to get up and leave. I tuck my legs under me and pull out a pair of leggings that I’ve been sewing. The leather is thicker and tougher than usual because we haven’t had time to cure it properly, but we need more winter clothing, and thick, hard leather is still leather. Beggars can’t be choosers, and I want Pashov to have enough warm clothing to last the brutal season. He doesn’t have much in the way of gear since the cave-in, and I want him to be prepared for the weather to turn. I can’t hunt, and I’m not much of a provider, but I can cook and sew at least.
“Have you finished your bathing?” Pashov asks, dumping another scoop of snow into the pouch to melt.
I look up at him and gesture at the sewing in my hands. “I’m done. I’m just going to work on this.”
“Do you mind if I bathe?”
“Not at all.” I get to my feet. Of course he’s going to ask me to leave. Since I was weird about my own bathing, maybe he’s taking that as a cue that he needs to have privacy for his own wash.
“Wait,” he says before I can leave. “Would you…help me?”
Help him? I can feel my body tingling in response to the question. “Of course.” I’ve washed him in the past, though it usually led to sex. It feels like a bold move, and I’m both fascinated and a little nervous at him asking me to do something so intimate for him. My fingers itch to run all over his skin, to feel the heat of his body against mine.
So when he hands me his sharpening stone, I’m more than a little confused.
“Um?” I ask, frowning down at it.
Pashov gestures at his broken horn. “Can you smooth this out for me?”
Oh. Of course. I’m a little disappointed I’m obviously the only one thinking dirty thoughts. He has no mirror, so of course he needs my help to file down his broken horn. I grip the rock tight, wondering how I’m going to do this. He’s a great deal taller than me—almost two feet, really. Even as I consider this, I’m still a little shocked when he kneels in front of me, his face upturned to mine. There’s something curiously intimate about him on his knees before me.
Either that or my brain is just in the gutter. Permanently.
Also entirely possible.
From this angle, I get a good look at the stump of his horn. The edges are rough and jagged, but there’s a smooth stump of bone underneath that looks untouched. I can’t help but touch it. “Does it hurt?”
“It does not.” His voice sounds thick. When I glance over at him, his eyes are closed, his expression tight. “If you can, grind down the hard edges, please.”
“Will it help it grow back?”
“No, but I worry I will accidentally stab you or Pacy with the edges.”
“Not much of a chance of that happening,” I murmur, though it’s sweet of him to think of us. “You’re two feet taller than I am.”
“When we lie in bed together, we are the same height.”
Is he thinking about lying in bed with me, then? I feel a warm flush of pleasure. “I see.” I hold the grinding stone against the remnants of his horn and hesitate. “This won’t hurt you?”
“I will feel nothing, I promise.”
I lean in, and his hands go to my waist. He’s just steadying me, of course, but as I put the stone against his horn again, I realize that his face is level with my breasts. And now that I’ve thought about it, I can’t stop thinking about it. I rub the stone against one jagged break, and my breasts sway in response to the movements. Oh boy.
He doesn’t grab my tits, though. Nor does he even comment on the fact that they’re shaking in his face like maracas as I saw down the hard, broken points of his horn. He just kneels, utterly still, as I work on his horn. And I’m a little disappointed. Doesn’t having my breasts in his face do anything for him?