Page 28 of A Fae’s Guide to Tactical Botany

“Okay, I’ve had worse.” He let out a groan. “I fucking hate concussions.”

“You’ve had a…concussion…before?”

He grinned, almost as bright as normal. “I have interesting hobbies. I tend to get hit on the head a lot. Though usually I have a nice padded helmet to mitigate the risk.”

“Ah.” Mara held back all the questions that horrifying statement inspired. If she asked about his interesting hobbies that involved getting hit on the head frequently, he would likely never shut up. “There is water, if you need it.”

“Yes, please.” He started to sit up, groaned, and lay back down.

“Here.” Mara leaned forward and carefully dribbled water into Ethan’s mouth, though he insisted on paying no attention to his canteen, instead watching… Ah.

She sat back abruptly, tugging at the neckline of her gown.

Ethan blinked at her. “Thank you,” he said at last. “That helps a lot. I… I should definitely go.”

Should she be offended that a glimpse of her bare breasts had convinced him to do what she’d been asking him to do all along? Perhaps she should have danced naked earlier. When he was not injured and could actually leave under his own power. “I do not think—”

“No, I got this. A sprain is nothing. And we’re back down to one sky again. I’m good.”

“Are you?” Mara peered closer. His forehead was creased with strain, and he was trembling.

“Yeah,” Ethan muttered. He struggled to stand, favoring his right leg. “I got this. I’m just—” His words broke into a whimpery screech when he stepped with his right foot. He fell back to his knees. “Shit. I don’t got this.”

“Do not be a fool,” Mara grumbled, helping him ease back down to the sand. The mead cans she’d set under his head were no longer cold; she set them aside.

He grinned weakly. “I yam what I yam and that’s all what I yam.” He mimicked a tooting whistle. “Do you like yams? Not the candied ones with marshmallows. Nobody likes those. We pretend to like them for tradition but…” He trailed off, frowning vaguely. “What was I talking about?”

“I do not know.” Mara tried to make it forbidding, but it came out soft. “Does speaking help with concussions?”

“Probably not,” he slurred.

“Then be silent. Rest.” She hesitated, then set a careful hand to his brow. “Can you tell me how to…fix you?”

He wheezed out a laugh. “Well, for starters, don’t make me laugh.”

“It was not a joke.” She yanked her hand back.

“Mara, there are at least three jokes for the asking in the whole fixing me thing.” His face fell out of its smile into a pained grimace. “Sorry. I’m being a dick. Thank you for the offer. You are very generous.”

It should not have stung, but it did, because she knew it was a lie. She was not generous at all. She was greedy, stingy, selfish, and he lay injured because of it. Even now, she was not helping him because she was kind or good, but because she wanted him to leave the space she had claimed as her own.

But she was tired of arguing.

She forced a smile to bloom on her face and set to work.

Chapter eleven

Comfort

Ethan had forgotten how concussions felt, the vague nausea and vaguer headache and the way words danced just out of reach. The pervasive awareness that something was simply wrong. Like that children’s book about the red-haired girl with the hat and the circus and the nun waking up in the middle of the night, something is not right, and how did he even remember that book when he could barely remember how he’d ended up flat on his back with an ice pack under his head and another on his ankle, all while a gorgeous magical woman glared daggers at him as if he didn’t deserve the gentle touch of her hands. Which, to be fair, he didn’t. He’d been a jerk to her.

And yet her hands were gentle.

It was the most concussiony puzzle ever to concuss.

He should, technically, go to the hospital. He knew that. Concussions could mean brain bleeds could mean death. But the chances of that were fairly slim, and he couldn’t very well drive himself, could he? He had no choice.

Well, all right, he had a choice. If he really wanted to go to the hospital, all he’d need to do is send Mara to get his satellite phone. He had friends who would come get him. Hell, even Sarah would probably do it, for old time’s sake. They might not be dating anymore, but she was a decent human being, despite her gray car, and they had specifically planned their separation in a way that they could remain friends.