Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
I’m spinning in a storm of competing elements—warmth and pain; soft sheets and rough hands; an intoxicating scent of winter and warm honey marred by alcohol and pungent medicinal herbs. Around and around it all swirls as I grip the sheets, trying to make it stop.
It doesn’t stop.
But it eventually slows, and bit by bit, I become more aware of my body, of something heavy and cold resting on my forehead.
The weight of it makes me panic for some reason.
I try to shake my head. The weight falls away, and I’m instantly hit with stabbing pain behind my eyes—which only makes me panic worse, because it feels entirely too much like the pain I felt when the sight was ripped away from my right eye.
I can’t help the soft whimpers that escape me.
“Easy. You’re okay. Just don’t move.”
I obey, freezing only because I recognize the low voice as Reave’s, and everything that’s happened comes flooding back to me all at once.
That cold, woodsy scent with a hint of sweetness underneath…it’s his. The softness against my skin…his silk sheets. Because I’m in his bed. In his room.
Footsteps coming closer. And then, a careful touch—his hand pushing what seems to be a cold compress back into place on my forehead. The relief is instant. His hand lingers for a moment, carefully positioning the compress and adding to its soothing pressure.
Comforting me.
The Mouren King is comforting me while I lay in his room, handling me with the delicacy one might afford a fallen lover. Or maybe a bundle of thorns that someone’s dropped into his bed as a prank. I don’t know. For the moment, I’ve given up on trying to figure out what he’s truly thinking about me.
Myself, I want to recoil. But again, I can’t find the strength.
So instead I close my eyes and let the moment happen, drifting back into that spinning storm of warmth, imagining arms wrapping around me, pressing the warmth deep into my body.
My mother’s arms. My father’s. Malachi’s. Marta’s. Briar’s.
I try not to focus too much on the way Reave is touching me.
But it’s hard not to.
His hands are precise, occasionally moving the compress around, pressing it to the exact throbbing spots that need relief.
Then his touch moves lower, tracing my scrapes and bruises.
At one point, he draws his fingers away for a moment, only to bring them back covered in some sort of thick salve that tingles when he brushes it over my skin.
My voice cracks, and moving my dry lips is painful, but I finally manage to get words out. “I heard you ask a servant to send healers...”
“I did, yes.”
“You’re not a healer.”
“Not by trade. But it’s another pedestrian skill I’ve picked up over the years, alongside cooking.”
I open my eyes to find him methodically arranging several jars of different ointments, bandages, and other supplies on the bedside table. Slowly, I prop myself up so I can study it all.
I wonder if he’s developed some of these medicines himself, same as the recipes he’s developed in the kitchen.
If maybe he’s picked this skill up for the same reason he picked up cooking: for the sake of his siblings.
Whatever sickness ails them all, he seems determined to be the one to fix it—to fix everything—however he can.
A strange, unwanted compassion creeps through me as I realize we have this in common as well; I know what it’s like to grasp for control this way, the desperation of wanting to do something, anything to make a difference when it feels like you’re facing something insurmountable.
“The actual doctor came and went some time ago,” he informs me. “You had an entire conversation with him.”
I give him a blank stare.
“…You don’t remember any of it, do you?”
“I…no. I don’t.”
“So he was right to caution me not to move you, then. You were in terrible shape.”
Why do you care? I want to ask.
Then I remind myself of our arrangement—that he isn’t taking care of me because of any real feelings between us. I’m precious to him, but only because I’m valuable. Much like dragons hoard shiny things. Kings do the same.
Still, whatever medicines I’ve been given for the pain must be shaking up my thoughts, because I find myself unsatisfied with this explanation.
“Why did you bring me to your room, of all places?”
“Because you were hurt, and I panicked.”
“The vile, murderous King of Mouren panics?”
“Not where anyone can see him doing it.” He walks to a cabinet on the far side of the room, taking out a glass, a bottle, and pouring himself some sort of amber-colored drink. “Which is why we’re hiding in my room—because no one will disturb me here.”
“And he hides, too? Hm.”
“Only when he needs somewhere quiet to focus on plotting his next vile, murderous move.” He raises the glass to me before taking a sip, then saunters back to my side.
It hurts to move my head, but I still do, tracking his every movement as he approaches. “This isn’t some elaborate scheme to get me into your bed, is it?”
He arches a brow.
“Your reputation precedes you in this area, too, you know.”
“Does it?”
“I’ve heard rumors about the things that go on in this room.”
“And here I worked so hard to keep those massive orgies a secret.”
My face heats. “You’re not being serious.”
“Maybe, maybe not.” He takes a sip of his drink. “I do have an insatiable appetite for a lot of things.”
“I’m sure.” I clear my throat. “So. Exactly how many courtesans have you taken in this bed?”
He lifts his eyes to the coffered ceiling, as if trying to remember the exact number. “This bed? None.”
I give him a skeptical look.
“It’s a new bed; I’ve only had it a week or so.”
“That must be why it’s so uncomfortable,” I grumble—though it’s a lie. It actually feels like I’m sinking into a pile of clouds.
“We could break it in better, if you’d like. But I’m not sure it would help with your recovery.” His eyes shine with something like mischief. “I’m not known for fucking gently—as I’m sure all the rumors have told you.”
“I’ll pass, thank you.”
He shrugs. “Standing invitation.”
“Always pass.”
“Disappointing.”
I look to the door. “Can I go now?”
“I’m afraid not.”
A different sort of heat floods through me. “I’m fine, really—”
“You’re not. And, doctor’s orders aside, while you slept there was another rebel attack near the palace gates. It’s not safe for you to be alone tonight. You will stay close to me.”
“By which you mean…”
His eyes sweep over the massive bed, focusing on the empty half.
I grit my teeth. “I’m not sleeping in this bed with you.”
“Then feel free to move to the floor. But you will not leave my room. Or my protection.”
My insides do funny things at the words my protection, but I ignore the sensation and instead level a glare toward him. “You could sleep on the floor,” I suggest, “and be a gentleman.”
“I’m not a gentleman.” He swirls his drink. “I’m a vile, murderous king.”
“I hate you.”
“Well, as long as you do it from within the safety of my bedroom, I’ll permit it.” With that, he disappears into the adjoining washroom and closes the door.
I hear water running a moment later, then the sound of him changing…he’s simply going through his nighttime routine as if this is all perfectly normal for him, holding an injured woman captive in his bed.
I scoot deeper under the covers, wincing at the pain the slight movement causes. I groan—partly from that pain, partly from frustration. I’m not fine. He wasn’t wrong about that part. And without him to talk to, I feel myself slipping again, giving in to the dizziness, the exhaustion.
I can’t fall asleep, though, no matter how hard I try.
It doesn’t matter how comfortable this bed is; I don’t belong in it.
Reave returns some time later, his wavy hair slightly damp.
He’s not wearing a shirt, and some dampness still glistens on his skin as well, drawing my eye to his chest. As he crosses to one of three standing wardrobes in the room, my gaze follows, noticing a group of scars sweeping down along his left side, disappearing beneath the band of his loose-fitting pants.
And that’s all I’m noticing, I swear.
After pulling a shirt on, he comes to check on me, feeling my forehead and checking my pulse. Without a word, he takes some of the jars from the bedside table and goes to the cabinet where he poured his drink. He mixes something new in a small metal cup, then carries it back and offers it to me.
“Take this,” he says. “It will help you sleep.”
“I’m not going to let you drug me into a state of oblivion before you climb into bed and do whatever you want with me,” I mumble.
His expression darkens, and I immediately realize that I’ve taken our tense bantering too far.
“Just to make one thing perfectly clear,” he says, a slight growl slipping into the words, “I would never touch you without your consent. And you’re obviously in no condition to consent right now, even if you don’t accept any more medicine from me.”
I begrudgingly take the cup, though I still don’t drink from it.
“If it makes you feel better,” he adds, “I probably won’t even sleep; I have too much work to do, anyhow.” As if to prove his point, he walks over to the small desk in the corner of his room and starts to sort through the piles of books and papers on it.
Several minutes pass. I grip the cup tighter, tapping my fingers against it, watching him. He seems completely uninterested in me, fully absorbed in whatever he’s doing over there. He seemed serious about my consent, too—so maybe I’m being unnecessarily stubborn.
I risk taking a few sips. It tastes surprisingly good, warm currents of honey and cinnamon almost completely masking the bitter medicine underneath, and the drink is empty in no time at all.
I feel calmer as it settles in my stomach, my vision less blurry as it once again settles in the king’s direction.