Milo whimpered, but forced his muscles to go limp. The freezing brass wand remained pressed against the back of his neck. Slowly, agonizingly, it began to absorb his body heat. The sharp, biting cold softened into something heavy and soothing.
"Oh—" Milo groaned softly, his head rolling to the side.
"Yes," Salvatore murmured, quiet satisfaction in his voice. He began drawing the wand slowly down Milo's spine.
A cold line. Then warm hands following right behind, erasing the chill.
Cold, then warm. Over and over, tracing the contours of his shoulder blades, carefully avoiding the healing welts with precision, following the long lines of his back down to his lower waist.
Milo was entirely caught in the rhythm. His mind, usually crowded with old shadows, had no space left for fear.
He was entirely consumed by the present: the cold metal, the warm oil, the heavy hands, and the absolute certainty of Salvatore's voice.
Salvatore set the wand down with a soft, deliberate clink.
