The Serpent in the Stone - By Nicki Greenwood Page 0,7
cord again, this time gripping both her wrists in spite of his injured arm. “My question exactly.”
She recoiled, but he kept his hold. It took all her resolve not to hit him with telekinesis. “Let go of me,” she whispered.
He didn’t. His stare went icy, and she found herself wishing for the blazing look from moments before. She tried to pull away again. He held on, gritting his teeth through what must have been an excruciating jerk of his shoulder. “Let go,” she repeated with as much indignation as possible.
He released her wrists and sat back. Pain crept into his features, but he masked it so fast she knew he hadn’t meant her to see.
“Here.” She reached for his waistbelt again, but hesitated. “Do you want help, or not?”
His expression lost some of that hard edge. She unbuckled the waistbelt with forced calm. Her gaze drifted lower. Ears burning, she followed the seam of his pants to the juncture of his thighs. Her heart pounded so hard, she dreaded he’d hear it.
Ian shifted and sat ramrod-straight. Her fingers flew to the buckles of the leg loops. His thigh muscles were rigid as marble. She loosened the buckles and slid the harness off his body, then reached for his fleece vest. “You’re going to need some help...unless you can do this one-handed...” She trailed off with her fingers on the zipper, feeling heat flush her face.
When he didn’t respond, she dared a look upward. The barest suggestion of humor had crept into his pain-glazed eyes. “I can figure it out,” he said. She lowered her hand and he undid the zipper, then shrugged his good shoulder. The vest came off one side. He reached across his chest and eased it down the other arm.
Watching him undress—even one innocent piece of clothing—brought on a fresh wave of jitters. Her stare fixed on the broad planes of his torso, visible under the snug thermal shirt. Well-defined shoulder muscles sloped into the curves of arm and chest. Mesmerized, she let her gaze fall lower. He’s built more like a marathon swimmer than a teacher. How does this man spend time in a classroom and look like that? “D-Do you have a sling? Painkillers?”
“Under the bed. The first-aid kit.”
She bent and fished around under his cot for it. Sweat glistened on his face. She shook herself out of her daze and opened the kit to find a prescription bottle. “You came prepared.”
“Not the first time I’ve had a shoulder problem,” he ground out.
She handed him the water canteen from his bedside table, then helped him put on a sling. Tension rippled through his body under her fingers. She longed to ask him about his memory of Faith’s necklace, but the thought of saying it aloud terrified her.
Her gaze traveled downward over the sling to his left hand. Dried blood crusted his bruised knuckles and torn fingertips. She reached into the first-aid kit for a packet of antiseptic wipes, then tore it open and dabbed gingerly at his wounds.
His body shivered and she looked up. The corner of his mouth had twisted into a wry smile. He shook with silent laughter, then winced and held his arm closer to his body. “What?” she whispered.
When he spoke, his voice rasped with mingled discomfort and mirth. “I have a dislocated shoulder, and you think a little peroxide is going to hurt me?”
She scowled to cover her nerves and finished wiping the blood off his hand. Fearing the answer, she plunged ahead with her next question. “How did you get back up the cliff?”
“I don’t remember.”
Of course he did. She’d caught the rise of his voice, the clipped edges of his words. She looked up, and her pulse quickened. He sat so close she saw tiny flecks of green in his eyes. His mouth quirked, bringing out a dimple in his stubbled cheek.
She snatched up the contents of the first-aid kit. “You have to keep your arm in a neutral position. Put something under the elbow to keep it a little away from your body. It could take a month to heal. You should do some exercises, ice it. And you shouldn’t raise it over your head for a while—”
Ian took her hand in his good one. His warm fingers coasted over her palm. “Sara.”
The contact, and the sound of her name on his lips, froze her in place where she knelt. She sucked in a lungful of air and held it.