The pampering started with medicine.
Aria poured the potion over her fingers and pressed them into the shoulder fracture, and it burned.
Healing potion against deep bone damage was cold fire that sank through tissue and forced the break to knit faster than bone wanted to go, and Aria's fingers worked the liquid into the crack with firm, slow circles that made him feel every centimeter of damage he'd hidden from them.
Her touch sat on the exact border between medicine and a lover's hands, pressing deeper than the fracture required, tracing the line of his shoulder, spreading warm across the muscle beneath, and her silver eyes never left his face.
While Aria worked, the other four looked at what her fingers were pressed into.
Two hours of dried ichor, crusted blood, and combat grime baked into his skin from throat to waist.
