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Arenvald’s a damned fool, and Fordola’s even worse for letting him indulge her in this farce: he lets her keep the jar of warming ointment on the highest shelf where she has to stretch up onto her toes just to reach it, lets her soothe his pains with salve smeared into his shins and the thin skin behind his knees, lets her be careful with him when he’s got no good reason to trust her to be. When he wouldn’t be able to feel if she weren’t.
When her hand lingers for a moment too long atop his thigh, Fordola swallows hard, nauseous with her own wanting — it’s strange to hide her teeth and lick his wounds instead, to pretend she’s more than butcher or wolf, but it stokes the heat smoldering low in her gut, and the hunger, too.