Chapter 9 #2
In his gloved palm lay a gleaming bone shard as long as a finger.
Her heart jumped into her throat, and she slapped his arm away, the bone twirling through the air.
As soon as it landed, the sick hex brightened the snow.
Panic raked through her skin and she twisted her arm to her back, fingers rummaging over her clothes, looking for where the bone cut.
Her fingers tore through the shorn fabric, closer to her skin, searching for torn flesh and oozing blood.
For all she knew, there was a numbing agent within the bones and the curse was eating her from the inside out as they stood.
The bone stuck in the thick leather hide closest to her body but didn’t touch her skin. Heaving a sigh of relief, she whirled on the prince. “What’s wrong with you? Never, ever touch those.”
“I was worried it touched you. Did it?”
“No. And do not even think about thanking Mirvadel.”
His eyes twitched with amusement. Cerise was sure there was a faint smirk beneath his scarf.
She raked a hand through her hair, pushing it out of her face.
As she did, a chilly wind seeped through the ripped layers, biting against the sliver of exposed skin.
She shivered at the sudden cold and the prince’s gaze flicked down.
“How many layers did it get through?” the prince’s hand shot outward, as if to grab her layers of clothes and assess the damage. He stopped himself, hand paused in the air before bunching into a fist.
“All, except my actual flesh. The leather stopped it.”
“We need to repair your clothes, or at least the leather, before moving on.”
“No, we don’t. I can fix it tonight. But we should make as much progress during the day as we can. And get as far away from this,” Cerise nodded her head in the direction of the expanded curse, “as possible.”
“Listen. The more you aggravate the tears, the worse they’ll get. The worse they get, the more thread it’ll take to fix. The more resources wasted. Plus, you’ll be colder. If you’re colder, you’re slower. And in more pain, correct? It’s a stupid risk to take, Cerise.”
She clenched and unclenched her jaw, wondering if he’d imprison her if she punched him. “I’m not going to strip naked in the middle of this forsaken, freezing wood to sew. Now that is a stupid risk to take.”
“If it makes you more comfortable, we could make camp now. Sunset is not too long away. We can eat dinner, relax our bodies and minds from what we witnessed. Discuss what it means. And we can fix your clothes before they get worse.”
“You and your schemes.” Cerise scoffed. “It’ll take much more cunning than that to get me naked in a tent with you.”
An amused chuckle rumbled through the prince, sending unwelcome heat through Cerise’s body. “As much as I may enjoy you without clothes, there’s no need for that. I can sew it, if you wish.”
Cerise barked a laugh and the prince’s brow pinched together with confusion.
“I’m serious.”
“Even if I believed you, it’s a ridiculous idea.”
“Why?”
“Because…” Cerise trailed off, mind rushing to find a good reason. He was a prince. Why would he know how to sew? How much experience could he have doing so when he had royal tailors and maids to take care of such trivialities?
But he had a point that it would be better to address the tear now rather than risk it worsening.
If she was alone, she might’ve set up the absorber to create a warm bubble for herself while stripping and fixing it.
But she wasn’t alone. She could make him wait outside while she stitched it in the tent.
But even the thought of being nude in the tent while he sat outside felt too exposed.
With the dim light of the absorber, he’d still see her silhouette.
Could still imagine what her body looked like.
Her muscles also ached. The twist to protect herself from the exploding bone combined with the extra walking without Eirwen’s magic caused a deep, tender agony in her leg that was becoming more difficult to stand on.
“Fine,” she said, “but let’s move farther away from the area of exploded bones.”
He nodded and followed behind Cerise as she led them deeper into the woods, the glow from the new curse pools fading behind them.
In a stretch between two trees they made camp, Oberon demanding Cerise relax while he did all the work.
He claimed it was to ensure the fabric of her clothes didn’t rip further, although she suspected he could see the strain on her face, the clench in her jaw, as she fought the tearing pain in her leg.
She accepted the reprieve, going along with the story it was to preserve her clothes.
Cerise was too exhausted to make a fire. Since they had dehydrated foods to eat, and the frozen water in their canteens would thaw beneath the absorber, there wasn’t much reason for one.
The snow depressed beneath her body with a soft crunch when she sat.
While the sky darkened, Cerise watched the prince from the corner of her eyes, appreciating the fluidity of his movements but not wanting him to know she stared at him.
The ease with which he dug out the snow and pitched the tent with his hood and scarf falling down to reveal his full face.
His cheeks reddened with the cold, frost clung to his beard, and breath gusted from his mouth.
After placing the absorber, he exited the tent with a pleased expression, dusting the snow off his hands. The prince lifted a tent flap, holding it open. “After you.”
Cerise huffed. A soft tenderness mixed with sour annoyance in her chest at the gesture. No one had ever held a door, or some version of it, open for her. But also, they didn’t need to. She was perfectly capable of opening one herself.
Using Beloved, she pushed to her feet and avoided making eye contact with the prince as she brushed by him into the tent.
She removed her outer layers until the rough leather was revealed, placing the other clothes on the ground to lay on.
She settled onto her side, body winding tighter and tighter as she listened to Oberon get closer.
The tying of tent straps. The shift of his body on the ground behind hers.
The opening of pack strings, his hands rummaging through it to find a needle and thread.
Her shoulders nearly touched her ears with how tense she was by the time the prince asked, “Are you ready?”
Even though she couldn’t see it, she knew his hand hovered over her side, the warmth of him pressing nearer. Cerise grunted in affirmation, forcing her eyes wide open and grinding her teeth, bracing for the touch. For the reminder of undead hands ravaging her skin.
The prince’s touch was featherlight, fingertips tracing so delicately over the leather she could barely feel it. It sent shivers up her spine. The shudders melted into her muscles, relaxing them. But only a little.
He pried open the shirt when he found the cut, fingers grazing her skin. She flinched and sucked in a breath.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Just making sure you’re unhurt.”
No images of the undead flashed through her mind. No ghosts of their claws raked over her skin. The prince was too warm, too alive, for those nightmares to conjure.
The prince pinched the leather closed and the needle thrust through the dead, cured flesh. The force of sewing through the clothes moved Cerise’s body, the weight and heat of the prince seeping into her. She took deep breaths until her shoulders and neck no longer ached with their tension.
In the absence of her hellish past flaring through her mind, as she had expected it to do, she instead focused on the strength, the heat of the prince’s hands. It pooled a traitorous desire between her legs, images of the prince’s hands roving over other parts of her body corrupting her mind.
Clearing her throat, wanting some sort of distraction from how his hands awakened her, she said, “So tell me how a prince became so adept at everything.”
He laughed, a surprised, rumbling sound that did the exact opposite of dousing her desires. “What do you mean?”
“You can garden. Pitch a tent. Sew clothes. I haven’t seen you fight with the spear, but you hold it with familiarity. And you know the stars.”
The prince was silent for a moment, the rough stitching of a needle poking through the leather the only sound. “I suppose when no one gives you purpose, you try to find it yourself.”
Cerise thought of herself and Eirwen joining Zyrdriel’s Order when they’d outgrown Vhypael’s Temple, hoping to find a purpose, a family, in the Order.
But the prince couldn’t have been searching for belonging, for family, in the same way they’d been.
His Mirvadel-blessed life was far different from her own.
“You’re a prince. Seems that has purpose, in and of itself.”
“Ah, for the crown prince, yes. I’m simply the spare.
There in case my brother died. Which was unlikely, given the various enchantments bestowed on him at birth.
While he was taught how to rule, told the secrets of the kingdom and Celestials, I was just…
there. To be scolded or paraded around as needed.
” The prince fell quiet again, a heaviness forming around them.
“I suppose I thought if I could just find the right skill, the king and queen would spare me a second glance.”
“Your parents, you mean.”
“Yes.”
Cerise refused to feel bad for the prince. He grew up with wealth. With shelter, food, and clothes. Friends. Yet she couldn’t deny the expanding gentleness toward him in her chest. Perhaps he was not as spoiled as she assumed all royalty to be.