Chapter 6 #2
The knife glints on the table. My fingers twitch toward it. This could end everything.
I hover between choices, freedom or fear, mercy or survival, and reach for the blade.
But then he drags in a shuddering breath and lifts his head.
His mismatched eyes meet mine.
And what I see there—pain, confusion, something lost and strangely human—strikes me so sharply I gasp. The ache behind my ribs blooms without permission.
The knife slips from my thoughts.
I move before I can stop myself. I drop to my knees beside him, one hand steadying his back, the other gripping his forearm, feeling how violently he trembles beneath my touch.
“My lord,” I say, breathless with urgency. “Stay calm. Just breathe.”
His skin is cold beneath my hands, but smooth, as I imagined it might be, and I do not recoil.
His arm trembles under my grip, muscles coiled tight. I steady him.
“I am here,” I repeat, softer. “Breathe with me.”
This isn’t new. Not entirely.
I have seen this before.
My father, when the winters were at their worst, would clutch his chest the same way. He’d sink to his knees in the cottage, struggling for breath, panic tightening every muscle. I’d kneel beside him on the uneven floor, guide his breathing, rub circles into his back until the stiffness eased.
It never fixed him. But it kept him alive.
“Slow breaths,” I urge, sliding my hand higher along Luceran’s spine, grounding him the way I did for my father. “Not too deep. Match me.”
I inhale slowly through my nose. Exhale softly through my mouth.
Luceran’s breaths hitch and stutter, but he tries. His eyes fix on my mouth, mimicking me as his jaw ticks with effort.
“That’s it,” I whisper, leaning closer. “Stay with me.”
His body is too heavy for me to lift, but I keep him upright, bracing my shoulder beneath his. His silken hair brushes my cheek and the contact sends a strange shiver down my spine.
His pulse flutters violently beneath my fingers.
Not good.
I need something to open his chest, ease the tightness, ground the magic writhing under his skin.
“Stay here,” I breathe. “Do not move.”
As if he could.
I push off him and sprint to the galley, skidding across the stone floor. I snatch thyme and wintermint from the hooks, crush them quickly between my palms until their oils release.
Then I fill a cup with steaming tea and drop the crushed herbs inside, swirling the mixture until it turns fragrant.
When I return, Luceran is on both knees, fists planted on the floor, breath ragged and uneven. His hair hangs over his face, hiding his expression, but the tremor in his shoulders betrays him.
“My lord,” I say gently, kneeling in front of him. “Drink this.”
He doesn’t lift his head.
“Drink this now!” I command.
His eyes snap to mine, wild, bright, burning with something fierce and wounded. But he takes the cup. His hand shakes so hard I have to wrap my fingers over his to steady it.
He drinks.
The herbs work quickly, warming the throat, easing the chest. His breathing slows, not smooth, but steadier. His shoulders drop a fraction, the tension in his arms easing.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
“You’re alright,” I whisper.
His gaze lingers on me. The runes along his chest dim slowly beneath his shirt, their frantic pulse settling into something calmer.
“Why,” he rasps, voice torn raw, “Why did you help me?”
My heartbeat stumbles.
But I give the only truth I can bear to speak.
“Because I have a debt to pay. Because the honor of my family depends on it. The Devlins may be a small kin and dirt poor, but we are proud, my lord.”
His eyes darken, not with anger this time but with something I cannot decipher. Something that feels like a question… or an answer.
Before he speaks, I rise.
“Rest,” I say quietly. “I’ll… clean up.”
But as I turn away, I feel his stare burning into my back. As I clean, Luceran slowly begins to reassemble himself. His breaths deepen. His shoulders square. His magic settles like a restless beast returning to heel.
He pushes one hand against the floor and rises, unsteady at first but regaining control with every inch upward. Without a word, he stalks back to the chair that lies skewed across the room. Frost still webs the floor beneath it.
He grabs the heavy wood, drags it across the stone, and drops into it. The chair creaks loudly under his weight, as though the castle itself exhales in relief.
I keep my head down and finish what needs to be done. I wipe the spilled tea. I scrape the remnants of food, and last, I gather the bloodstained tablecloth carefully in my arms, folding the evidence of my mistake away from his sight.
When everything is back in place, I clasp my hands before me and try to keep my voice steady.
“I will head to the tower to continue the paperwork, my lord.”
“No.”
The word snaps across the room like a whip. I freeze, breath catching in my throat.
His gaze flicks to my hands. “Is your injury well?”
My… injury?
For a moment, I almost don’t understand what he means. Then the sting flares in my palm. I had almost forgotten the thorn-slice and the smear of blood that caused all this.
I nod quickly. “It’s fine, my lord.”
I start to turn away again, eager to retreat before his mood changes, but his voice stops me once more.
“You will not go to the tower,” he says. “You will come with me.”
I blink, startled. “Come with you?”
He rises, tall and steady now, as if the collapse from moments before were nothing but a dream. “I must inspect the mines. As part of your duties, you will understand how they function.”
My mouth opens, then shuts. I nod instead. “Yes, my lord.”
He studies me, eyes narrowing, but not in anger this time. More in consideration.
“Get a cloak,” he says. “You will not survive long outside wearing only that.”
Thoughtfulness. From him. It lands strangely in my chest, a discordant note I do not know how to place. But I do not question it, not after last night, not after this morning.
I bow my head and hurry out of the dining hall to fetch another coat, the strange echo of his concern trailing after me.
I go straight to my room and, as he has made painfully clear, do exactly as I am told.
I pull another cloak from the wardrobe, a thick, fur-lined one with a big bushy collar, and wrap it tightly around my shoulders over my coat.
Then I pause, hands gripping the fabric, and draw in a long, steadying breath.
I feel as though I am always one step from disaster. One breath from ruin. One heartbeat from offending him again.
But I square my shoulders and head downstairs.
At the base of the staircase, the grand entrance doors stand wide open. A cold draft spills in, fluttering loose strands of my braid as I tilt my head and walk toward the light.
Outside, the courtyard is eerily deserted. Snow drifts lazily from the sky, gathering in pale mounds against the ancient stone. But at the foot of the stairs rests a carriage unlike anything I have ever seen.
It is pale blue, the color of early-morning frost, etched with delicate gold filigree that glints under the cloudy light. The emblem of the wolf is carved into each door, fangs bared, fur bristled.
Two white horses are harnessed to the front, so beautiful they do not seem entirely real. Their manes are carefully braided with silver ribbon, the braids so intricate they look like woven ice. Their tack gleams with polished metal and tiny gemstone studs that sparkle among the falling snow.
Luceran stands beside the open carriage door.
He frowns the moment he sees me. “What took you so long?”
Before I can stutter an explanation, he gestures sharply toward the carriage with a curt nod.
“Get in.”
I obey at once, hurrying down the steps. I lift the hem of my dress and reach for the carriage frame, only to jerk in surprise when Luceran extends his hand to me.
I freeze, then gulp and place my hand in his.
His grip is firm, cold, steady. But luckily my gloves absorb most of his chilled touch. He helps me step up into the carriage with far more care than I expect. My heart lurches unhelpfully at the gentleness of it.
He climbs in after me, shutting the door with a solid thud. The interior is warm, lined with velvet, plush cushions and fur throws, but he fills the space completely when he sits across from me. His legs spread wide, his knees knocking into mine without hesitation or apology.
He does not seem to notice.I notice far too much.
I tear my gaze away from his hands, his shoulders, the runes faintly glowing beneath his clothes, and turn to the small window.
There is no driver.
I blink. “Who will drive the carriage?”
Before he can answer, a tiny head pops up from the driver’s perch, a sprite with translucent wings beating wildly. It grins at me, baring a mouthful of jagged teeth. Another sprite appears beside it, laughing in an unsettling, high-pitched trill.
Then the whip snaps. The horses rear, hooves slashing the air, and the carriage lurches violently forward.
I yelp and pitch toward Luceran, my hand slamming against his thigh to catch my balance.
Even through my gloves, even through his trousers, the solid cords of muscle are unmistakable.
My eyes widen, and I snatch my hand back as though burned once more, pressing myself as far into my seat as the carriage allows.
Luceran does not comment. He only watches me with a look I cannot interpret.
Then the horses charge from the courtyard and into the sleet, the world blurring into white as the carriage speeds toward the frozen wilds.