Chapter 43 Heartbeats
Chapter forty-three
Heartbeats
Two hours later, the chief surgeon came out, mask pulled down, revealing a neutral expression.
Steward of Healing Noel Starblanket’s confidence carried the authority of both tradition and necessity.
Neither tall nor small, neither distinctly male nor female, the doctor wore long braids threaded with beads, a reminder of their people’s balance of body and spirit.
Their age was as indeterminate as their gender.
Azaleen stood, followed by everyone in the waiting room, with hopeful gazes fixed on the doctor.
“We removed three bullets from Ms. Sutter’s body, two producing minor wounds.
The third was tricky, as it perforated her right lung, lodging in a back rib bone.
We’ve controlled the bleeding and inserted a chest tube to drain excess air and blood, relieve pressure, and allow the lung to re-expand.
She has stitches in her side, hip, and chest at the three entry points. She must be quite the acrobat.”
“Three?” Azaleen’s stomach jutted into her throat.
Dr. Starblanket gave her a reassuring smile.
“Right now, she needs rest and a sterile environment to guard against infection. My nursing staff will be watching her for signs of pneumonia, which is our greatest concern at this point. All in all, Ms. Sutter was lucky. She won’t be running marathons soon, but we expect a full recovery. ”
A collective sigh of relief filtered through the room. Luke smiled, slapping Harlan’s shoulder. Diego and Wes elbowed each other, grins as wide as rivers. Skye and Renée hugged one another. Juliette gave Starblanket a nod of approval. “Thank you, Doctor. I knew we could count on you.”
“When can I see her?” Azaleen teetered on pins and needles, still struggling under the weight of her emotions. She believed Starblanket’s report, yet she couldn’t relax until she’d seen Lark alive with her own eyes and expressed her gratitude.
They cocked their head at her. “When you’ve scrubbed yourself in a shower and put on clean clothes. Then come back, and my nurses will fit you with a sterile gown, cap, and booties, and disinfect your hands. You don’t want my expertise to go to waste by infecting her with a germ, do you?”
“No, of course not.” Azaleen suddenly felt silly. What must everyone think of her fuss? For once, she didn’t care. Excusing herself, the queen went to the inn to follow the doctor’s orders.
When she returned, they had moved Lark to a private room. The nurse outfitted Azaleen with a blue-green gown to tie over her clean clothes, booties for her feet, and a cloth cap to bundle her hair into. After watching her scrub with antibacterial soap, she allowed the queen into the room.
A monitor hummed beside the bed, lights soft.
A plastic tube trailed from the side of Lark’s chest while an IV line plugged into her arm.
The powerful woman lying in the bed looked small, a sight that pierced Azaleen like a barb.
“If you stay too long, I’ll come run you off,” warned the stern-looking nurse.
Then she left them alone, closing the door behind her.
Azaleen quivered. Lark opened her eyes. Her lips quirked, a pleased expression brightening her pallid face. The queen crossed the room, lowered herself on the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb the equipment. “Hey, you.”
Alive. Awake. She’ll be all right. Thank all the gods and angels—she’ll be all right. A joyful, hopeful feeling budded within her belly, expanding to encompass her entire awareness. Azaleen smiled—honest, radiant, warming her from within.
“You came.”
Lark’s eyelids drooped, but a gleam of delight snuck through. Pain meds, Azaleen presumed.
“There’s nowhere more important for me to be than at your side.” The words escaped her lips before Azaleen could filter them. It didn’t matter. It was true. “You saved my life, Lark. Now I’m going to take good care of you.”
“Ahhh.” Lark’s breathing was labored, as if taking extreme effort, but she breathed. That’s what mattered. “I’ll be fine. This place has good drugs.”
“Yes,” she laughed, cheered by Lark’s good humor. She wanted to touch her, to hold her hand, brush her face—something. Azaleen hesitated. “How? What made you run across the stage? It all happened so quickly, and you were just there. Camille said you moved faster than a speeding arrow.”
“Automatic reflex, I suppose,” she answered. The heart monitor beeped in a steady rhythm, granting Azaleen assurance. “Couldn’t let you get shot.”
Lark gazed at her with a dreamy look in her tawny eyes.
She reached a hand, cupping Azaleen’s cheek.
“You’re so beautiful,” she murmured. “Outside, sure, but inside too … like a rose edged in molten silver …” Her lids lazily fell and reopened.
A horrified look blazed across Lark’s gaze before she lowered it, snatching her hand back as if burned.
At once, the sting of disappointment assailed Azaleen’s emotions, her countenance falling.
“Why’d you pull your hand away?” Maybe she had this all wrong.
Maybe Lark wasn’t attracted to her. Might she think of her as a mother figure?
After all, Azaleen was a good deal older.
A mortified panic fluttered in her chest. The queen squelched it.
“I’m sorry,” Lark drawled. “It’s not my place. You’re the queen; I’m a swamp rat.” Her eyes drifted shut.
A sharp temper put fear to flight. Indignantly, Azaleen scooped Lark’s hand into hers, lacing their fingers together.
“You are no such thing! You are a bright, talented, courageous woman with a heart of gold who charms everyone she meets. You defy gravity—and cheat death. And, and … you have warm hands,” she added, grasping at straws, gently massaging her hand—a hand that, though rough, had felt so pleasurable when pressed to her face.
In a voice so soft Azaleen almost couldn’t hear it herself, she said, “I don’t mind if you want to touch me.”
Lark opened her eyes, gazing questioningly, hopefully, and probably intoxicatedly at her. “You don’t?”
She looked so sweet, so innocent and vulnerable, lying there with tubes and drips and stitches.
The expression Lark offered snuck past Azaleen’s last line of defense, through some crack that must have hidden in her armor.
It wrapped around the queen’s heartstrings and yanked.
Though it made no sense, Azaleen wanted only to taste her, to know how her lips felt.
Would they thrill her to the soul—or leave the hardened queen unmoved?
It had been so long since she’d let anyone in—not since Aren died. Ten years?
Her mother had been right when she’d quipped, “There’s always a girl.
” She’d been hopelessly in love with a young woman her age before the political marriage.
To remove temptation, the king had transferred Hellen’s father to Marchland, and her whole family moved away.
Throughout her marriage, she’d sustained herself with imaginary girlfriends, deriving pleasure in bed by picturing one of them on top of her, gliding feminine hands across her flesh, ravishing her in secret fantasy.
Azaleen had always respected her husband and tried to please him.
It wasn’t her fault if her body didn’t respond as expected to a man. It wasn’t his either.
She knew better than to give in to weakness, to let sentimentality and hormones rule over her better judgment.
But she realized this wasn’t simply a fleeting emotion or physical stimulus.
Azaleen was drawn to Lark like the gravitational forces of stars and planets that couldn’t escape their orbits if they wanted to.
She could continue to deny herself or take a chance.
No one would accuse Queen Frost of timidity.
Leaning forward, she touched her lips to Lark’s, her heart leaping in her chest. It broke every protocol, crossed every line.
So why did it feel so right? Her lips were both soft and firm, tasting lightly metallic from the anesthesia.
Lark responded enthusiastically, embracing the kiss, moving her lips in harmony with Azaleen’s.
When doubts and questions battered Azaleen’s brain, she drew back, peering at Lark for a sign. A silly grin stretched across her mouth, and she batted her eyes. “Is this a dream? Because I dreamed this before, you know.”
There was no containing Azaleen’s delighted smile. She kissed Lark’s hand as proof. “No, not a dream, my dear. Whatever is between us is very real.”
Lark’s glow sucked her in again, and Azaleen bent, kissing her for a second time—deeper, harder, longer, their lips and tongues waltzing to unheard music that pulsed in their veins.
A rush of euphoria shattered her last defenses.
Why couldn’t she have this and still be queen?
Was it so wrong for her to be happy, even for a moment?
But Lark was injured, in the hospital, hooked up to machines. Azaleen eased away, still squeezing her hand. “Thank you,” she uttered in sincerity. “Thank you—for saving my life, and for not pushing me away.”
“Is that what this is, a thank you?” Lark’s brows drooped. Azaleen noticed her heart monitor had been racing for a minute.
She caressed Lark’s cheek, drawing her fingertips along her jawline, her thumb over her chin and lips. Azaleen felt the urge to trace every inch of her fabulously toned body. Instead, she did something she’d dreamed of for weeks—slid her fingers through Lark’s unruly hair.
“It’s thank you and more. Tell me what you want, how you feel.
You’re in no condition for more now, but …
maybe when you’re better.” Azaleen brushed her lips to Lark’s knuckles, then let go, bringing her hands to rest in her lap so she exerted no pressure on her potential lover.
Is that how she saw her? Too much adrenaline; too many hormones.
“Now I’m sure it’s a dream,” Lark whispered, her lids closing once more. “Of course I want you. But in what world would you want me?”
“Lark,” Azaleen began, trying to form the right words, though she had no clue what they would be.
The door threw back, and Skye burst into the room. “Queen Frost, we just received a pigeon from General Stark. You need to read this.” The urgency in her voice set off alarm bells.
“You rest now,” she said to Lark and brushed a kiss to her forehead. Leaving her bed, Azaleen crossed to Skye and exited the hospital room with her. “Yes?”
Skye’s long legs set a brisk pace down the hallway to where the rest of VERT waited. Luke handed the tube to the queen. She spilled out the note and read it.
Word from Whisper. Crane dead. Irons mobilizing. Invasion two weeks. Swinging north, crossing in the borderlands, spearheading south to hit Marchland. Coastal incursions, probable. Will be less than two weeks now. Please send orders at once. I’ve put our troops on alert. —Stark
“This is really happening.” In an instant, all thoughts of pleasure vanished as Azaleen faced the reality of war. “We can’t possibly be back in time.”
“Maybe not, Your Excellency,” Luke admitted, “but we can get to Nelanta ahead of the Iron Army.”
“It also depends on what our informant means by two weeks,” Wes suggested. “Two weeks until Irons’ troops leave Fort Rustin, or two weeks before they cross our border.”
“It will take time for them to march north, find a crossing spot along the river that isn’t too close to a radiated red zone.” Diego rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Then they have to go around the Memphis crater to march south.”
“So, it’s feasible that we could arrive in time if we leave now,” stated Harlan.
Azaleen glanced around the space, caught sight of a nurse. “Excuse me,” she called and waved. The nurse strode over with a curious expression.
“Yes? Did you need something?”
“I need to know how long Lark should stay hospitalized?” the queen asked in a brusque, no-nonsense manner. “When will it be safe for her to travel?”
“We could always leave her here to recover,” suggested Wes with a shrug.
The nurse pulled a chart from her station, flipped pages. “Dr. Starblanket plans to remove her chest tube tomorrow and would prefer she stay a few days for observation. Her stitches come out in two weeks. She could go back to the inn in the interim.”
“Luke, you can remove stitches, can’t you?” Azaleen half-asked, half-demanded.
While he nodded, Skye answered, “I can.”
Turning back to the nurse, Azaleen said, “So, two days after today—three total—and if there are no complications, she can leave.”
“That might be rushing things, but—”
“OK.” She cut off the nurse and pivoted to her team. “Luke, I need to meet with the high chief at once. Make that happen.”
Azaleen dropped onto the nearest bench, stripped off the sterile gown, gloves, and booties, and turned to her team, command in her bearing.
“Wes, talk to the doctor. Collect any medical supplies Lark might need on the return voyage. Diego, go find War Chief Wasaykeesic and find out how soon he can have a brigade ready to back us up. Harlan, round up the skipper and mate. Have them meet us in the inn’s lobby.
And Skye.” She fixed a commanding stare on the young lieutenant.
“Enlist Renée Rivard’s help. I know she’s sweet on you, and Batise dotes on her.
We need to invoke the terms of the treaty immediately. ”
“Yes, ma’am,” they all answered as one before scattering to obey their assignments.
Standing alone in the hospital waiting area, Azaleen rubbed her temple, a pounding headache coming on. With all the time in the world, why’d Irons have to pick right now to invade, while I’m thousands of kilometers away? Does he know? Is that why now?
She glanced down the hallway toward Lark’s room, torn between her heart and her duty.
Lark needed to rest anyway. She’d come back to check on her again in a few hours.
Azaleen willed her feet to move toward the exit.
I need to compose a reply to Stark, get our defenses rolling.
Thank all the gods and angels for Whisper, whoever he or she is.