No Rest For The Wicked

DAISY.

I've heard it said one too many times that eyes are the windows to the soul. It's a lovely sentiment, and I'm sure there is some truth behind such pretty words. But whoever first came up with the phrase must have forgotten one essential thing.

Lips.

Poets can write their sonnets about eyes, and painters can try to capture their gleam. The world can have my eyes and all they reveal, but leave me my lips so I can kiss the man I love. Leave me these bruised, bleeding, cracked things that can whisper sweet nothings and sing lullabies when the world is dark. Give me the taste of him kissing me, lips pressed against mine as if he could use them to breathe me into him and consume me. Perhaps eyes let you see someone's soul, but his lips could swallow mine whole.

One of his hands is on my hips, firmly pulling me toward him. The other wraps around the back of my neck, supporting me as I lean onto my side and tilt my face up to his. When we finally pull away, ragged and breathless, the brisk night breeze feels less cold on my skin, and the pain in my body feels more distant.

"Don't you ever tell me to leave you again," I whisper. I'm proud to say my voice doesn't quaver, and I hold his gaze as I let my words sink in. "Don't you dare."

He tucks a loose strand of my chestnut hair behind my ear with a tenderness that clashes with the massacre we just survived. His hands are dirty with ash and blood, but they feel soft as his knuckles brush down the side of my cheek, trailing all the way down my neck and stopping just above the cuts on my chest.

"I won't," he replies huskily.

I have to be practical. I have to keep a calm, level head and be reasonable right now. We have to recover enough of our strength to hike around the bluff and get to the Ash Coven's village so we can spend the rest of the night resting. I have to remind myself that the hard part doesn't even start until the morning, when we must head out to find the woman who created the monsters that drove us to the edge of life.

I cannot, under any circumstances, spend the rest of the night kissing this man and taking his clothes off.

"Just a little while," I sigh, leaning back against the cliff wall. Bastian's hand slides down to grasp mine once again, and we both look up to watch the magic in the sky. "We'll rest and heal for a little while and then hike up the rest of the way."

If the Witch of the Dark is going to send anything else after us tonight, it should take at least an hour to reach us, assuming it's something coming from her territory. Of course, that doesn't account for the possibility of more Shades still lurking in the forest, out of sight, nor the very real chance that the Withc of the Dark might have tricks up her sleeve that move faster than we do.

It's a calculated risk at best, but it's our best—albeit only—option.

Bastian nods slowly, though I suspect he would get up and go right now if he could. He lets his eyes fall closed. I cannot imagine the pain he must be in, but I can tell it's draining everything out of him. When he rescued me from the river and the fire, he healed much faster than I did. I suspect it has something to do with his unnatural wolf. Doesn't matter now. I can hassle him with my questions when he has the strength to answer them.

I turn over to survey him, and I frown when I realize his clothes are growing bloodier by the minute. The gashes on my chest are far from healed, but they feel like less of an open wound than they did before the blast that pulverized the Shades. The burst of magic had felt electric. Whether I was the source or merely a conduit, perhaps the power that flowed through me had some kind of a cauterizing effect.

Bastian was not so lucky.

His breathing is still far too ragged, and his face is a mask of tension. I can see the effort it takes for him to maintain his stoic, calm facade, to keep his agony concealed from me. He opens his eyes when he hears me shifting, and I kneel beside him to face him better.

"While we're here," I start carefully, "let me have a look at your wounds."

"You should be resting." He nods at the cuts on my chest. "You're injured too."

"Not as much as you," I reply, waving off his comment and shaking my head. "Please."

He stares back at me, those deep green eyes glistening with uncharacteristic hesitation.

"Please," I say again. "Don't make me beg, pretty boy." The corner of his lip twitches up, and the gleam in his eyes becomes mischievous.

Damn him.

"Tempting..." His voice is a low rumble. "But very well."

He leans forward and begins to peel off his bloodied shirt, pausing only for a moment when I move to help him. I've seen him shirtless before, and while that sight alone is enough to steal my breath, I have to bite back a gasp as I see his chest, marred by deep gashes and bruises in every shade of black and purple. Despite the pain and exhaustion, he remains breathtakingly handsome, his curly blonde hair clinging to his forehead with sweat and his strong muscles glistening in the dim light. How is he so gods damned beautiful even in this state?

I tear off a piece of his shirt and press it gently against the worst of the wounds on his abdomen. He winces, but I know he won't cry out. He's always been the strong one, the protector. He's saved my life more times than I care to count. Seeing him so vulnerable and wrecked tugs at my heart, and I can't help but feel a pang of fear and desperation.

"Shit," I whisper, my voice trembling, "I'm sorry. I don't know what else to do."

He reaches out and places his hand on mine, his touch warm and reassuring. "You're here with me," he says softly, his gaze never leaving mine. "That's more than enough."

It's a lovely, romantic sentiment. But it won't stop him bleeding. I focus on tearing his shirt to strips and wrapping his wounds as best as I can, struggling to ignore the fact that we have no proper medical supplies and that time is slipping away from us. The night is starting to feel stifling, and I can't shake the notion that our backs are literally pressed against a wall.

"Thank you," I murmur at last, needing to keep myself focused on something other than the violence on his skin. "Your tried to hold off the Shades while I got away. That was very noble of you. Mind you, it was stupid, and you shouldn't have done it. But it was noble."

A smirk graces his lips, a hint of amusement shining through the pain. I think if I threw myself at his feet and showered him with gratitude and admiration, it would not be half as meaningful as teasing him. He's excellent at making me blush- but me? I like to make him smile.

"Happy to help," he says.

We've been through so much together, but in the face of danger, it becomes clear just how deeply we care for each other. His teasing is an anchor that grounds me, his smile a lighthouse in all this darkness. The tension between us crackles in a way that rivals the electric buzz of bursting magic, but there's no time for anything but survival right now.

I tighten the makeshift bandage around his torso, and he grimaces as I struggle to staunch the bleeding. I can feel his eyes on me, his gaze intense and unwavering. There's so much left unsaid between us. In another time, another place, our lips could fill the silence between our words in other ways.

"We're going to be okay," I whisper, not sure which of us I'm trying to convince. He squeezes my hand gently, a silent promise of his own. Together, we'll make it out of this.

Thunder cracks not too far from us, and I flinch in surprise.

Really? Rain? Right now?

"We should go," Bastian says, and my brows furrow at the sudden urgency in his voice.

"You think there's a storm coming?" I ask, and my heart sinks when I follow his gaze up to the sky.

The shimmering colors, so stunning and reminiscent of the northern lights, have grown dim. They're still there, but softer and thinner. Beyond them, as if waiting on the other side of a veil, dark clouds are gathering. Lightning strikes on the other side of the misty lights of the witch's blessing, and I suck in a breath. It cuts through the sky, not blue or white like most lightning, but an eerie shade of acidic green that feels like a personal attack at this point.

Looks like the Witch of the Dark is making a statement. I'm guessing she knows her shady pets are dead, and by the looks of it, she's not too happy about it.