Page 4 of The Archer’s Wish

Beitris faced him, schooling her expression into calm professionalism. As always, she warmed her hands first, rubbing them briskly until heat bloomed in her palms. Then she scooped a generous amount of the minty poultice, its strong scent filling the small room.

She began at his calf, applying slow, firm pressure. The heat of his skin radiated through her fingers. Beneath her touch, his muscle jerked and tightened. A soft grunt escaped him.

Her gaze flicked upward.

He stared at the ceiling, jaw clenched, cheekbones taut. Even undone by pain, there was something fierce in him. A solid strength coiled tightly, barely leashed. His upper body remained powerful, the sculpted lines of his chest and arms evidence of a life spent training, fighting, living at the edge of danger. Even his thighs, one scarred and twisted by injury, held the remnants of formidable strength.

He thought himself ruined. She could see that in the way he avoided his reflection. The way he refused to meet her eyes for long. But he was wrong. He remained very much a man women would look at twice and think on long after. Not that she’d ever confess such a thing. He’d become unbearably smug.

She always draped a cloth for modesty’s sake, but working near his left hip and thigh meant she caught brief, intimate glimpses she had no business noticing. She had to keep her eyes forward glancing down briefly to ensure to place her hands on the right area.

“I am sorry,” she murmured, her voice softer than she intended. “I ken this part hurts.”

After smearing more poultice across her palms, she pressed them to his upper thigh. The reaction was immediate; a deep, guttural sound tore from him. His stomach tightened, chest expanding sharply as he dragged in a breath.

Her hands glided down the length of his muscle. It resisted at first, tense as a drawn bowstring, but slowly, reluctantly, it yielded beneath her touch. His breathing quickened. A sheen of sweat gathered at his brow. Once the pain subsided, as it always did, the intimacy of her touch pressed in around them, thick as warm air.

Two more passes and she finished with his thigh. Next came his hip. Both of them stilled for a heartbeat.

This was the place they dreaded for different reasons. For Liam, it was agony. For her… it felt far too intimate. Too invasive.

“Would ye like a drink?” She reached for the wooden cup before he even answered.

He nodded and pushed himself up on his elbows. She held the cup to his lips, looking anywhere but at his mouth. He drank deeply, herbs tinting the water with a calming scent.

When he lay back again, tension hardened his features.

Something in Beitris ached at the sight. A tiny, treacherous part of her longed to cup his face, to smooth away the pain, to show him a gentleness he’d likely mistake for pity. But that was a line she could not, would not cross.

From all the rumors, Liam was a man who had never cared for a woman beyond the span of a brief seduction. He’d left behind more broken hearts than she could count. She refused to let hers join the heap.

His eyes cracked open, cutting through her thoughts. “Why are ye waiting?” His head lifted just enough for his gaze to catch hers.

Heat flared at her cheeks. Saints help her, she’d been staring.

“I was giving ye a moment to rest,” she lied smoothly, though her voice was a pitch too high… and his narrowed eyes made her nervous.

Once more, Beitris warmed her hands, rubbing them briskly until heat grew in her palms. The sharp, minty scent of the poultice rose like a cool wave, soothing and almost invigorating. She coated her fingers with the mixture, then placed both hands carefully on Liam’s hip.

His entire body tensed beneath her touch, bracing for the pain he expected.

She began at the outer curve of his hip, working in slow, deliberate circles. The heel of her palm pressed deeply into the muscle, coaxing it to soften under her hands. She moved with practiced precision, letting her fingertips guide her, seeking out knots, tightness, places that required firmer pressure or gentle coaxing.

Gradually, she felt the tension bleed out of him. His breathing eased. The rigid set of his jaw loosened.

“It seems this area is healing faster than the leg,” she murmured, her palm sliding along warm skin.

“Aye,” he said, voice low. “Are we done then?”

“Almost.”

“I need ye to stop,” he said abruptly, his tone tight, almost urgent.

“Not until I’m done,” she snapped before she could temper the words.

He exhaled sharply, one long, resigned breath. “Fine.”

And then she understood.