Chapter 26 #2
He drains his cup in one quick motion and sets it down.
I hold out my hand and watch his face as he realizes what else I got from the pantry.
“Gingerbread, hmm?” he almost purrs, the sound sending shivers down my spine.
“Someone told me it helps with the shock,” I say, smiling.
He takes the gingerbread, pops it in his mouth, and lies back down.
“I am ready to be sewn together like a masterful quilt,” he says and closes his eyes.
The bleeding has stopped, but the wound is deep. I dab the still-warm towel against his temple and remove as much blood as possible.
My hands shake as I thread the yarn into the needle and pull my chair closer to the table.
“Where is your favorite place to go?” I ask as I begin to lead the needle through Ashford’s skin.
He seems surprised by my question, but responds nevertheless.
“There is a cave not far from where I grew up, leading into the ocean. The water there glows at night in the summer, as if thousands of lightning bugs are living right underneath its surface. It’s where I return to in my mind when life gets…
heavy,” he says, trying to keep his voice even, although I must be causing him a great deal of pain.
“Ah, you saw through my cheap trick of distraction,” I say as I place the last of the stitches.
“I did, but I appreciate it all the same. How do I look, Your Majesty, will there be a scar to scandalize the ladies?”
I huff. “I hardly think you need a scar to get their attention.”
It comes out before I can stop myself, and for a second, I hope he didn’t hear me, but as I turn around to look at him, he is already sitting up with a lop-sided grin on his face.
“And why is that?” he says teasingly.
“Rumor has it you always get what you want, you’re the Broker after all.” I try to sound casual.
He nods and leans back on his hands. “People say many things about me. Most of them contradictory. It saves me the trouble of maintaining a reputation.”
“You are avoiding the question.”
“I am deciding whether I trust the person asking it.”
I snort softly as I set the needle aside and reach for the clean cloth again, wiping the last smear of blood from his temple. “You trust me enough to let me sew your face back together.”
“I trust your skill,” he corrects gently. “Trusting your intentions is a more complex matter.”
I pause, the cloth hovering against his skin. “And what do you think my intentions are, Lord Ashford?”
He studies me for a long moment. His gaze does not wander the way most men’s do; it rests, as though he is reading something written beneath my skin.
“I think,” he says slowly, “that you are very careful with kindness. You spend it like coin you cannot afford to lose.”
“That is hardly an answer.” I withdraw the cloth and set it beside the basin. The kitchen smells faintly of herbs and cooled hearth ash. Outside, the sun is starting to rise, coloring the sky in soft tones of pink and purple.
“They say you make deals,” I say at last. “What kind of deals?”
He tilts his head, considering. “The ordinary sort, mostly. A man wants fortune. A woman wants safety. A merchant wants advantage. A noble wants power without consequence.” A faint smile touches his mouth.
“And you give them what they truly want?” I ask.
Ashford leans forward and touches his hand to his temple. “No. I give them what they truly choose.”
“That sounds like a riddle.”
He shakes his head. “It is a warning.”
I fold my hands together to keep them from fidgeting. “And what do they give you in return?”
His gaze drifts briefly to my fingers, still faintly stained with his blood, before returning to my face. “Something of equal value,” he says simply and shrugs.
“And how do you measure that?” I ask.
“I listen to what they are willing to give and decide if it’s enough.”
I consider his words.
“You said you have always known what people needed.”
“I usually do.”
“Then tell me,” I say, meeting his eyes, refusing to look away now. “What do you think I need?”
He grows very still.
I wonder if I have misstepped, if I have asked something too intimate. The fire crackles faintly behind us, shifting shadows across the stone walls.
Then he exhales through his nose, almost amused. “You need eight uninterrupted hours of sleep.”
The answer startles a laugh out of me before I can stop it.
“Do not mock me.”
“I would never mock exhaustion. It is the most honest state a person can inhabit.”
My smile fades slowly as he continues to watch me.
“You need,” he goes on more quietly, “to set down burdens that were placed upon you by men who mistook your endurance for willingness.”
My chest tightens.
“And,” he adds, his voice lowering slightly, “you need to remember that survival is not the same as living.”
The words touch me somewhere deep and tender, a place I keep carefully guarded even from myself.
Without thinking, I reach out and brush a stray lock of hair out of his face. My fingers brush the rough line of his jaw.
He lifts his hand then—slowly enough that I could pull away if I wished—and closes his fingers around my wrist. Not tight, not the way Charles does. Simply there, warm and comforting.
My pulse stutters beneath his thumb.
“And one more thing,” he says softly.
I do not trust my voice, so I only raise my brows in question.
He watches me as though weighing every breath I take. “You need,” he murmurs, “to be touched by someone who has no desire to conquer you.”
The kitchen seems to shrink around us.
My hand remains against his face. His thumb traces once, almost absently, across the inside of my wrist, and the gesture sends a shiver racing up my arm.
“And is that another one of your deals?” I manage to ask.
A strange softness enters his expression then, something almost regretful. “No, Your Majesty.”
He leans closer, close enough that I feel the warmth of his breath against my lips. Close enough that I notice the scent of smoke and night air clinging to him.
“That one,” he says quietly, “would cost you far too much.”
My heart pounds so loudly, I am certain he must hear it. I do not move away. I do not step closer either. I simply remain suspended, caught between caution and recklessness.
His gaze flicks once to my mouth, then back to my eyes. “Tell me to stop,” he whispers.
The words hover between us like a drawn blade.
I open my mouth.
And no sound comes.