Bound to The Enemy of My Mate
she said, her voice brooking no argument, “sit down. Have a meal until I get the medicine ready. You are no good to her as a corpse.”
He obeyed, collapsing onto a stool. He took a sip of water, then another, the liquid a shock to his parched system. He forced down a few mouthfuls of stew, tasting nothing. His eyes, burning with exhaustion, never left her. He watched as she ground the rare herb with a mortar and pestle, mixing it with other components—powdered moonstone, a drop of something that smelled of pine and lightning. She worked with a slow, sacred precision that set his every nerve on fire.
Every second was a grain of sand falling in Elira’s hourglass. ---