Page 57 of The Knucker King

His fingers dropped from her face, and he cradled the hand of her injured arm in his wide palm. The size difference between them befuddled Avice; three of her hands could fit into his grip with room enough to spare. He lifted her hand to his mouth, and whipped out his long, forked tongue, running it from wrist to elbow. Her jaw dropped at the sensation. The feeling of his tongue had not changed at all since his transformation. Hot and wet, sparking desire in her core; she squeezed her thighs together as excitement pooled there.

A gleam settled over the wound. Tingles shot up her arm and fluttered her belly, adding to the sticky pleasure between her legs she tried to ignore. She stared in wonder as the wound knitted together, as though an invisible needle and thread were hard at work. The shine settled. Gone was the throbbing and steady pain that had made her restless. In its place was a smooth iridescent scar. She tilted it in the light of the fire, and the refractions reminded her of a rainbow caught between cloud and Sun.

She beamed up at Trewoofe. “You should have saved your magic for your own healing but thank you.”

He released her hand and grazed a claw over her pendant. “It does not work like that,” he explained. “I can only heal others. The sacred waters are what I have used in the past to recover from my injuries.”

Avice studied his face. With his sunken eyes and hollow cheeks, he looked like he was still knocking on death’s door. “Do you think you can eat or drink something?” She roughed Bramble’s ears, and he thumped his tail against the floor. “Ashling has been working very hard helping me bake ash cakes, smoke the boar meat, and make bone broth. Would you like to try?”

An affirmative chime rang from the hearth, and Avice chuckled at the Wisp’s enthusiasm.

Trewoofe grimaced. “I do not think I can stomach it,” he admitted. “The thought of eating or drinking something makes me want to vomit.”

The midwife sighed, unsure of what do next. She had sewn his wounds, given him medicine, and allowed him to rest. If he could not keep anything down, if the iron still writhed in his belly, all they could do was wait for it to pass.

She fiddled with her necklace and studied him closely. “What do you think would help you?”

“I would like to hold you, again,” he blurted out, a flush passing over his cheeks. “While we sleep,” he added.

Avice smiled softly at his outburst. The Well King looked positively flustered. She had to admit, his embarrassment at the thought of holding her in his arms was endearing.

She rested a palm on his bandaged arm. “Of course. I am exhausted, Lord. Would you mind if we rested now?”

He nodded and laid down on his side. The way he looked up at her though his eyelashes was positively sinful. He opened his arms to her, wide and beckoning.

Her breath caught at his sultry expression before he closed his eyes. “Your warmth is needed, Avice,” he murmured.

She giggled at him, before sliding her back along his chest. He snapped his arms around her, pulling her closer. The gentle thrum of his heart echoed through her back, matching the pulse in her throat. As her eyelids drooped, she marvelled at how well they fitted together as they slipped into a dreamless sleep.

22

Chapter 22

Avice

The following day – the second full one Trewoofe had been under her care – he did not wake up. Avice had tried to rouse him at each mealtime, even wafting the dreaded pickles under his nose, but he did not stir.

She tried dribbling the healing waters into his mouth, but he did not swallow and pushed it out with his tongue, drooling it down his chin.

That night, she fell asleep in his arms again, clinging to him, and willing him to stay with her.

On the third day, he still slept.

The whole time, anxiety clawed at her chest. She would check on him obsessively, ensuring that his pulse still fluttered in his jugular, and his chest still rose and fell.

As a distraction, Avice busied herself outside. She gathered the magical blooms that had grown from when Trewoofe, still in his Knucker body, had been in her garden. Once she had collected several baskets, she sat on the pallet next to him, weaving flower jewellery in a variety of sizes for the Good Neighbours who would participate in the Spring Equinox ritual.

Throughout the day, she tried to get him to drink, but it simply dribbled back out. Tears stung her eyes in frustration at the healing waters being wasted. He had said himself that he used it to recover, so why did it not work?

As she laid down beside him that night, Trewoofe – still unconscious – tossed an arm over her, his claws grazing her belly. She wriggled around in his grip and pressed her palm to his forehead. Her face pinched in concern. He was freezing, and his body no longer trembled. She rubbed her palms up and down his bandaged arms to try to warm him up. Her eyelids dropped as she continued the repetitive action, her dreams stalked by images of burying Trewoofe under the frost.

By the morning of the fourth day, the healing waters had run out.

Avice knelt beside him on the pallet and pressed her fingers to his cold throat. Trewoofe was pale as a corpse, and she felt only the slightest flutter of his pulse. His chest laboured, and ragged breaths wheezed in and out of his nose.

She grazed her lips over his forehead, and brushed her fingers through his hair, and around the base of his horns. “You cannot leave me,” she whispered. “We have only just found each other.”

Bramble whimpered by her side. Avice, is he going to die?