“This might be cold,” she warns, reaching for the torn hem of my shirt.

“I said I can—”

“Oh, stop being difficult.” Her fingers brush against my skin as she lifts the fabric, and electricity shoots through me at the contact. “It’s just a bandage.”

But it’s not just a bandage. Her touch is gentle, careful, completely different from the clinical efficiency of royal healers. When she checks the edges of the wounds and her fingertips graze my abdomen, heat flares through my entire body.

“The swelling is going down,” she murmurs, leaning closer to examine the cuts. “That’s good. The paste is working.”

Her face is inches from mine...