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Mistrals Kiss :: Гамильтон Лорел
Страница: 118 из 148” There was a bloodyfurrow down one side of his face, as if Agnes had tried to claw his eyes out. I made as if to touch the wound, and he pulled away, catching my hand in his. “I will heal.”
He didn’t want me to fuss over him in front of Mistral. If it had just been Doyle and Rhys, he might have allowed it. But he would not have Mistral see him weak. I wasn’t sure how he felt about Abe, but I knew he viewed Mistral as a threat. Men don’t like to look weak in front of their rivals. Whatever I thought of Mistral, that was how Frost and Doyle saw him.
I took Frost’s hand and tried not to act concerned about his wounds. “He called the hunt. Why are they attacking him?” I asked.
“I warned him that he looked too sidhe,” Rhys said. “I wasn’t saying that just to stop him from doing something dangerous to us.”
Something warm dripped over my hand. I looked down to find Frost’s blood painting my skin. I fought the spurt of panic and asked calmly, “How badly are you hurt?” The blood was coming steadily — not good.
“I will heal,” Frost said, voice tight.
The trees closed overhead with a sound like the ocean waves rushing along a shore. Leaves tore and rained down on us as the branches wove a shield of leaves, thorns, and bright red berries above. The shadow it cast made Frost’s skin look grey for a moment, and it frightened me.
“You heal gunshot wounds if the bullet goes through and through. You heal nonmagical blades. But Black Agnes was a night-hag and once a goddess. Is your wound of blade, or claw?”
Frost tried to take his hand back, but I wouldn’t let him. Unless he wanted to be appear undignified, he couldn’t break free. Our hands were covered in his blood, sticky and warm.
Doyle was at Frost’s side. “How badly are you hurt?”
“We do not have time to tend my wounds,” Frost said. He wouldn’t look at Doyle, or any of us. He arranged his face in that arrogant mask, the one that made him impossibly handsome, and as cold as his namesake. But the terrible wounds on the right side of that face ruined the mask. It was like a chink in armor; he could not hide behind it.
“Nor do we have time to lose my strong right arm,” Doyle said, “not if there is time to save it.”
Frost looked at him, surprise showing through the mask. I wondered if Doyle had never, in all these long years, called Frost the strong right arm of the Darkness. The look on his face suggested so. And maybe it was as close as Doyle would come to apologizing for abandoning him to the fight with Agnes in order to save me.
He didn’t want me to fuss over him in front of Mistral. If it had just been Doyle and Rhys, he might have allowed it. But he would not have Mistral see him weak. I wasn’t sure how he felt about Abe, but I knew he viewed Mistral as a threat. Men don’t like to look weak in front of their rivals. Whatever I thought of Mistral, that was how Frost and Doyle saw him.
I took Frost’s hand and tried not to act concerned about his wounds. “He called the hunt. Why are they attacking him?” I asked.
“I warned him that he looked too sidhe,” Rhys said. “I wasn’t saying that just to stop him from doing something dangerous to us.”
Something warm dripped over my hand. I looked down to find Frost’s blood painting my skin. I fought the spurt of panic and asked calmly, “How badly are you hurt?” The blood was coming steadily — not good.
“I will heal,” Frost said, voice tight.
The trees closed overhead with a sound like the ocean waves rushing along a shore. Leaves tore and rained down on us as the branches wove a shield of leaves, thorns, and bright red berries above. The shadow it cast made Frost’s skin look grey for a moment, and it frightened me.
“You heal gunshot wounds if the bullet goes through and through. You heal nonmagical blades. But Black Agnes was a night-hag and once a goddess. Is your wound of blade, or claw?”
Frost tried to take his hand back, but I wouldn’t let him. Unless he wanted to be appear undignified, he couldn’t break free. Our hands were covered in his blood, sticky and warm.
Doyle was at Frost’s side. “How badly are you hurt?”
“We do not have time to tend my wounds,” Frost said. He wouldn’t look at Doyle, or any of us. He arranged his face in that arrogant mask, the one that made him impossibly handsome, and as cold as his namesake. But the terrible wounds on the right side of that face ruined the mask. It was like a chink in armor; he could not hide behind it.
“Nor do we have time to lose my strong right arm,” Doyle said, “not if there is time to save it.”
Frost looked at him, surprise showing through the mask. I wondered if Doyle had never, in all these long years, called Frost the strong right arm of the Darkness. The look on his face suggested so. And maybe it was as close as Doyle would come to apologizing for abandoning him to the fight with Agnes in order to save me.