Chapter 43 – Quinton #3
“Quin?” She searched my face, her hand still in my hair. “What is it?”
I shook my head and forced a smile. “Nothing. Got carried away.”
She didn’t believe me. I could see it in her eyes. But she let it go, and I was grateful, because I had no explanation to give. Not yet. Not until I understood it myself.
I tucked the feeling away. Filed it next to every other thing about my magic that didn’t make sense.
I caught her wrist, brought it down slowly, and pressed a kiss to the inside of it. Held my mouth there against her pulse.
“You wreck me,” I whispered against her skin.
She exhaled, her body softening against mine.
“You need rest,” I said. “And food.”
She nodded against my chest, still trembling slightly. “So do you.”
I didn’t want to let her go. Every instinct screamed to keep her here, to carry her to bed and hold her through the night. But I could feel her exhaustion through the attunement.
“Come on,” I said softly, reluctantly loosening my hold. “Let me walk you to Dain’s.”
She pulled back enough to look at me, and I saw everything in her eyes. Gratitude, fear, want, and confusion, all tangled together. But she didn’t say any of it. She nodded.
She moved through her house, grabbing a few things: a clean shirt, her hairbrush, something small I couldn’t see.
I stayed by the door, hands shoved in my pockets to keep from reaching for her again.
When she returned, she still had that messy ponytail, a bag slung over one shoulder. Exhausted and beautiful.
We stepped out into the evening air; the sun dipping below the horizon, stretching long shadows across the quiet streets.
She walked beside me, close enough that our arms brushed with every step.
The silence between us was warm and full, still humming with everything that had shifted inside her house.
We stopped in front of Dain’s. The porch light was on, warm and steady. Neither of us moved. I couldn’t help myself. I stepped closer, my hand sliding to the small of her back, and leaned in until my mouth brushed her ear.
“Next time,” I murmured, voice dropping low, “I won’t be so well-behaved.”
Her breath caught. A shiver ran through her, visible even in the fading light.
Then the door opened.
Dain stood there, mug of tea in hand, eyes flicking from me to Azaria.
He took in everything in one sweep: her flushed face, the way she stood too close to me, the way neither of us had stepped apart.
His expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes shifted, a quiet recognition, like a knot he’d been carrying had loosened by a single thread.
“Took you long enough,” he said, voice dry. Then he stepped aside, holding the door open for her.
Azaria brushed past him into the house, muttering something I didn’t catch. Dain watched her go, then turned back to me.
He didn’t say anything else. Didn’t need to. The look he gave me was clear enough: Don’t waste it.
“Take care, Thornvale,” he said.
I nodded once, jaw tight. “Always.”
He closed the door, and I stood there for a moment longer, staring at the warm lamplight spilling through the window. Then I turned and walked away into the night.
But I didn’t go home.
I found myself wandering familiar corridors until I stopped outside Myrin’s office. The healer’s door was slightly ajar, lamplight leaking through the crack. I hovered, weighing whether I should bother her. I could hear the quiet clink of glass, the soft rustle of paper. Working late, as usual.
I knocked two quick raps. Her voice floated out, sharper than expected. “If you’re bleeding, take a seat. If you’re dying, don’t ruin my rug.”
Despite myself, I almost smiled. “Not dying. Just need a word.”
The door creaked open wider, and Myrin looked up from her desk, assessing me the way only she could, like she could see every bruise and ache, even the ones under my skin. “You look like shit, Thornvale.”
“Yeah. I feel worse.” I didn’t bother dressing it up. “I need your help.”
“With what?”
“With healing.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Your blood magic can already mend torn muscle and arteries. What exactly do you want me to teach you?”
I met her gaze. “Control.” The word hung there, heavy as a blade. “I taught myself. Back in Dravareth,” I said. “On wounds I carved into myself. Or prisoners. It worked. But it’s always been rough. Brutal.” I paused. “I don’t want that anymore.”
A beat of silence.
“I want to use it the way blood magic was meant to be used.”
Myrin studied me for a long time, her expression unreadable. Then she nodded, slow and thoughtful.
“All right,” she said. “Come back tomorrow. First light. And don’t be late.”
She turned back to her work, the clink of glass starting up again, as if nothing monumental had been decided.
I stood there a second longer, feeling something start to scrape its way through the exhaustion. Not hope, exactly, but something quieter than that. Like a door cracking open. Maybe this time I’d get it right.
I turned and walked out into the night, my magic quiet for the first time in weeks.
And all I could think about was her.