NOT MY TURN #3
“Pancakes. With an obscene amount of strawberries. And syrup,” she said, then unlatched from him to find something to write it down.
When she found a pad, she turned back to find him staring at her again.
Like he’d known her for a century. A century she’d lost. She wanted it back.
She had no clue what that look was, but she wanted every second it promised her.
“What are you hungry for?” she asked him, drawing anxious patterns to keep from asking him how they knew each other.
Simon gave her a half-sad smile, then sighed an anxious puff of smoke from his lips.
“I’m okay. I have all I need right here.”
* * *
Somehow, they’d fallen into a routine.
During the day, Esme let Bal suffocate her, and then after sundown she left her window open and Simon slipped in.
At night, they’d talk about anything. He told her the story of how he found himself at the Valosia, how he’d survived Amaris for this many weeks in the first place. “You watch one sleight-of-hand show,” he said, “and next thing you know, you’re fangfucked by a lion.”
He never mentioned how, exactly, his sister had dropped him here, and though a slipperier Esme might have probed him, she enjoyed his presence too much to interrogate him for it.
Without him, she’d have had to face this alone.
Mina was busy caring for Gia, who’d seen too much.
They were staying with Isla for now, somewhere no one would look for them.
Urias was occupied with Janos. Bal needed her more than she could give.
The other Wraiths had their own grief to handle.
But Simon was for her. No matter how many times she asked him if it was okay for her to depend on him like this, how many times she told him it could be his turn to mourn if he needed, he shook his head and let her have him exactly as she needed him—someone to cry on, laugh with, drink with.
Simon was a salve for every ache Esme could have, and she indulged in him without caution.
Well, maybe with some caution. Maybe that slipperier Esme would gaze up at him in the firelight and take him in a different way.
But she had no desire for what she knew, for lust. Much like Bal, Simon was a confusing man, caring before covetous.
And though sex was a wonderful tonic for all that ails, just his presence was a much better medicine.
Every night, she’d fall into his arms. He often had food waiting for her, his thumb stuck between the pages of the book Esme had been trudging through for the past month.
She’d sit at the top of her bed, stuffing her face with whatever Simon’s kitchen paramour had made for her, while he sat at the foot, regaling her of the tale of a princess and her terrible taste in men.
(Truly, Pemia was dim as a lard candle to still want Lord Daven while Marcus was standing right there.)
But eventually, Esme would always have to leave.
Maranna came for her every morning, just after the sun climbed.
The vice-general’s eyes were always sunken, nearly black.
They looked upon Esme with equal parts apology and intent.
Maybe she knew, too, that Bal was much to care for, but she loved him too much to deny him that care, even at Esme’s expense. Esme always went with her.
Bal was silent for the first few days, answering questions with only one or two words.
By day four, he’d start small conversations, mostly about her.
Esme didn’t ask him anything about Prelyn or tell him about the meeting.
He just didn’t seem ready. Besides, Isobel had been unusually quiet.
Then again, no one would recover from what they’d seen in just a week.
Esme hated that there was some small part of her that wished for some excuse to leave Bal for an hour or two in the day sometimes, even if that reason was the annoyance of Isobel.
She didn’t dislike his attention. It was the context that made it so unbearable.
In the days after, it wasn’t so stifling to be near him.
His arms weren’t nearly as doom-inducing.
When he begged her to lie beside him, his skin wasn’t poison oak on hers; it was human, the normal amount of warm, and smooth.
It was useless to compare him and Simon, so she wouldn’t.
On the eighth day, Samander returned. So, too, did the pigeons sent to generals Gustoe and Dahl for the Wail and Blight, and Isobel had another meeting planned for that afternoon. Esme didn’t think Bal was up to it, but the queen demanded both heirs attend.
Which meant Esme had to tell him.
Bal sat across from her on his windowsill, staring at her while she looked at the castle grounds below. The meeting was in an hour, and she’d stalled too much to keep it from him any longer.
“What’s wrong?” he asked her, leaning forward like he could sniff it out.
“You’ve been staring out that window for twenty minutes.
” Bal hadn’t cut his hair since they’d met, but his chin was smooth.
He’d mentioned needing to shave absently yesterday, watching her out of the corner of his eye, knowing she would volunteer to do it for him.
She did, of course. Now, he watched her hand as Esme flipped her palm, and he grabbed it.
That was much of their communication these days.
“Last week, there was a meeting. We requested numbers reports from the armies. I don’t know about the Scourge yet. I won’t know until the meeting today. Isobel has requested that you come, too.”
All his color drained from his cheeks. “I don’t want to know,” he whispered.
“I know. But the meeting will be about much more than that. War is likely. You are a general. There will be planning to do. It’s important you be there.”
Bal sat there, stewing. “Then you’ll stay with me until then?”
Esme no longer felt like dying when he asked. She was used to his pleading eyes, half his face tucked away because he was so hunched over. “I will,” she said. She moved closer to him on the windowsill, slinging her arm over his shoulders.
He curled around her like he always did. He’d yet to tell her why it had to be her to hold him, but the answer was becoming clearer the more time she spent in this room.
Unfortunately—scarily—Balthazar was in love with her.