Acotar retelling

Reluctant Nursing

Over the next three days, I found myself joining Lucien on Andras's old patrol while Tamlin hunted the grounds for the Bogge, unseen by us. Despite being an occasional bastard, Lucien didn't seem to mind my company.

I never saw Tamlin around the manor—off hunting the Bogge day and night. Even at dinner, he spoke little before leaving early—off to continue his hunt, night after night. I didn't mind his absence. It was a relief.

On the third night I'd scarcely sat down before Tamlin got up, giving an excuse about not wanting to waste hunting time.

Lucien and I stared after him for a moment.
What I could see of Lucien's face was pale and tight. "You worry about him," I said.
Lucien slumped in his seat, wholly undignified for a Fae lord. "Tamlin gets into ... moods."
"He doesn't want your help hunting the Bogge?"
"He prefers being alone. And having the Bogge on our lands ... I don't suppose you'd understand. The Puca are minor enough not to bother him, but even after he's shredded the Bogge, he'll brood over it."

~~~~~

My hands hit an invisible wall and I rebounded with enough force to throw me down to the ground. I screamed, a high and painful sound. Wind whipped around me, dark and intense. I wrapped my arms around myself, dragging my nails down my skin and shredding lines in it.

I threw myself awake, sweat slipping down my back, and forced myself to breathe, to open my eyes and note each detail of the night-dark bedroom. Real—this was real.

But I could still feel the panic of being trapped. I still felt the terror and insanity, I still saw Tamlin and Lucien, the man I loved and my best friend, turning their backs on me.

I scrubbed at my face. Perhaps it was the quiet, the hollowness, of the past few days, but ... It was regret, and fear, that coated my tongue, my bones.

I shuddered as if I could fling it off, and kicked back the sheets to rise from the bed.

I couldn't entirely shake the horror, the gore of my dream as I walked down the dark halls of the manor, the servants and Lucien long since asleep. But I had to do something—anything—after that nightmare.

I crept down the main staircase, moonlight flooding the black-and-white tiles of the entrance hall. I reached the bottom, my bare feet silent on the cold tiles, and listened. Nothing—no one.

A breeze announced his arrival—and I turned from the table toward the long hall, to the open glass doors to the garden.

I'd forgotten how huge he was in this form—forgotten the curled horns and lupine face, the bearlike body that moved with a feline fluidity. His green eyes glowed in the darkness, fixing on me, and as the doors snicked shut behind him, the clicking of claws on marble filled the hall. I stood still —not daring to flinch, to move a muscle.

He limped slightly. And in the moonlight, dark, shining stains were left in his wake.

He continued toward me, stealing the air from the entire hall. He was so big that the space felt cramped, like a cage. The scrape of claw, a huff of uneven breathing, the dripping of blood.

Between one step and the next, he changed forms, and I squeezed my eyes shut at the blinding flash. When at last my eyes adjusted to the returning darkness, he was standing in front of me.

Standing, but—not quite there. No sign of the baldric, or his knives. His clothes were in shreds— long, vicious slashes that made me wonder how he wasn't gutted and dead. But the muscled skin peering out beneath his shirt was smooth, unharmed.

"Did you kill the Bogge?"

"Yes." A dull, empty answer. As if he couldn't be bothered to remember to be pleasant. As if I were at the very, very bottom of a long list of priorities.

"You're hurt,"

Indeed, his hand was covered in blood, even more splattering on the floor beneath him. He looked at it blankly.

Drip, drip, drip.

"Where can we clean up your hand?"
He lifted his head to look at me again. Still and silent and weary. Then he said, "There's a small infirmary."

I followed him there, avoiding the blood he trailed.

Tamlin slumped against the edge of the table, gripping his injured hand at the wrist as he watched me sort through the supplies in the cabinets and drawers. When I'd gathered what I needed, I tried not to balk at the thought of touching him, but ... I didn't let myself give in to my dread as I took his hand.

I cleaned off his bloody, dirty hand, bracing for the first flash of those claws. But his claws remained retracted, and he kept silent as I bound and wrapped his hand—surprisingly enough, there were no more than a few vicious cuts, none of them requiring stitching.

I secured the bandage in place and stepped away, bringing the bowl of bloody water to the deep sink in the back of the room. His eyes were a brand upon me as I finished cleaning, and the room became too small.

I was at the open door, no longer stifling the urge to bolt back to my room.

'Goodnight." I heard no response as I turned and left.