Chapter 22: Healing Touch
Chapter 22: Healing Touch
Selene’s POV
The shack’s walls sagged, rot seeping from the wood, the air thick with damp and the sour stink of blood. Mist curled outside, gray and heavy, choking the pines, but inside, it was just us—me and Lucien, bruised and torn, the seer’s words still clawing at my skull: Break it as one, or burn as one. My bare feet stuck to the dirt floor, cold and gritty, jeans ripped at the thigh, blood streaking my skin from the scout fight—mine, theirs, his. Lucien slumped against the wall, shirt shredded, chest heaving, scars slashed open by claws, blood dripping dark and slow, pooling in the dirt. His ice-blue eyes glinted, half-lidded, pain etched deep, but alive—damn him, alive and pulling me in.
I dropped to my knees beside him, mud sucking at my skin, green eyes sharp, breath tight in my chest. “You’re a mess,” I said, voice low, rough, hands shaking as I tore a strip from my sweater—already frayed, soaked with sweat and filth. He growled, low and wet, ice-blue flicking to me, his lips curling, blood smeared across his jaw, raw and feral. “You’re no prize either,” he rasped, voice torn, chest jerking with each breath, scars flexing, alive and bleeding. My pulse kicked, green eyes fierce, his heat hitting me hard—musk, blood, leather—stirring something dark and slick inside me, damn it, stirring me deep.
“Shut up,” I snapped, voice cutting, green eyes locked on his wounds—three gashes, deep and jagged, claw marks ripping across his ribs, flesh torn open, red and wet. I pressed the cloth hard against them, blood soaking through fast, hot under my fingers, his growl choking off into a hiss, sharp and raw. His hand shot up, grabbing my wrist, grip bruising, scars rough against my skin, heat exploding where he touched, dark and wild. “Easy,” he snarled, voice low, ice-blue burning into me, his breath fast, ragged, stirring the air between us, thick and spicy.
My chest tightened, green eyes fierce, leaning closer, my fingers digging into his skin, blood smearing my hands, hot and sticky, alive and messy. “You’ll bleed out if I don’t,” I hissed, voice steady, green eyes daring him, my breath brushing his chest, close—too damn close. His growl softened, ice-blue glinting, his grip sliding up my arm, slow and rough, fingers curling, heat sinking into me, steamy and wrong, pulling me under. “Then fix me,” he rasped, voice thick, dark, his chest rising fast, scars flexing under my touch, blood dripping, alive and relentless.
I yanked my wrist free, green eyes blazing, tearing another strip from my sweater, my bare stomach showing now, cold air biting my skin, but his heat drowned it out, wild and heavy. I pressed the cloth harder, blood oozing through, my fingers slipping, brushing his ribs, warm and firm, a jolt sparking low in my gut, dark and wet. His breath hitched, ice-blue narrowing, his hand dropping to my hip, fingers digging in, rough and hot, scars scraping me, sending fire straight through me, steamy and alive. “You’re shaking,” he growled, voice low, dirty, his thumb sliding slow across my skin, stirring me deep, damn it, stirring me hard.
“Shut it,” I whispered, voice breaking, green eyes locked on his, fierce and wild, my hands working fast, tying the cloth tight, blood staining my fingers, his pulse thudding under them, alive and brutal. His growl turned soft, almost a moan, ice-blue glinting, his hand sliding higher, brushing my waist, heat pooling where he touched, dark and slick, pulling me in. My breath snagged, green eyes wide, then slitting, fierce, leaning closer, my chest grazing his, soft against hard, electric, alive. “You’re a bastard,” I hissed, voice husky, fingers lingering on his scars, warm and rough, heat coiling tight in me, steamy and reckless.
“And you’re a damn tease,” he shot back, voice raw, low, his hand clamping my hip, yanking me forward, my knees slipping in the mud, chest slamming his, blood and sweat mixing, hot and messy. My pulse roared, green eyes fierce, his face inches from mine, lips parted, breath hot on my skin, spicy and wild, stirring me raw. “Fixing you,” I rasped, voice thick, green eyes burning, my fingers tracing his scars, slow and deliberate, heat surging where I touched, dark and needy, damn him, needy as hell.
His growl rumbled, deep and filthy, ice-blue locked on mine, his hand sliding up my back, scars scraping my spine, pulling me closer, heat drowning me, steamy and alive. “Keep touching me like that,” he rasped, voice torn, lips brushing my jaw, faint and hot, a spark igniting low, wet and wild, “and I’ll forget I’m bleeding.” My breath broke, green eyes fierce, his lips so close, heat coiling tight, my fingers curling into his chest, blood smearing, alive and savage. I tilted my head, green eyes wild, lips hovering near his, steamy air crackling, his breath mixing with mine, dark and heavy, pulling me under.
He growled again, low and rough, his hand sliding to my neck, fingers tangling in my hair, tugging hard, heat exploding where he gripped, wild and brutal. My chest pressed his, scars hot against me, blood slick between us, my lips parting, green eyes blazing, alive and reckless. “Lucien,” I whispered, voice cracking, green eyes locked on his, fierce and raw, his heat sinking into me, steamy and wrong, damn it, wrong and so good. His growl turned desperate, ice-blue flaring, lips brushing mine—hot, rough, electric—my pulse slamming, body arching, alive and wild, ready to crash into him.
Then he froze, ice-blue narrowing, breath hitching, his hand dropping fast, scars flexing as he shoved back, mud sucking at his boots, chest heaving, blood dripping fresh from his wounds. My breath caught, green eyes wide, fierce, confusion clawing me raw, his heat fading, leaving me cold, stripped, alive. “What the hell?” I snarled, voice sharp, green eyes burning, leaning forward, mud streaking my knees, wild and pissed.
He growled, low and tight, ice-blue glinting, his jaw locked hard, scars twitching under the dim light. “Not now,” he rasped, voice rough, pushing up, blood oozing through the cloth, his hand brushing my arm—quick, hot, gone. My chest ached, green eyes fierce, standing fast, bare feet sinking into the dirt, his rejection cutting me, dark and cold. “You started it,” I hissed, voice low, green eyes locked on his, defiant, raw, heat still simmering in me, steamy and alive, damn him, alive and burning.
He stepped closer, ice-blue piercing, his breath fast, hot, his hand hovering near my face, scars flexing, alive and wild. “And I’ll finish it,” he growled, voice thick, dark, his thumb brushing my lip, slow and rough, heat flaring low, wet and reckless. “But not here—not bleeding out.” My pulse thundered, green eyes fierce, his touch searing me, pulling me in, damn it, pulling me hard. He pulled back again, boots heavy, turning away, scars glinting, blood dripping, alive and raw.
I stood there, chest heaving, green eyes wild, mud cold under my feet, his heat lingering on my skin, dark and steamy, twisting me up. Why’d he stop? Why’d he keep stopping—every time, every damn touch, pulling back when I was ready to fall, damn him, ready to burn? The shack creaked, mist pressing in, the seer’s words echoing—break it as one, or burn as one—and my chest split, green eyes fierce, wondering if he’d ever let us burn, or if he’d always pull away, leaving me raw, alive, and wanting.