Chapter 18 #3
A dark blob of shadow fading beneath a bowl of steaming soup, likely the remnant of a fire’s shadow he used to heat it, with cheese and bread beside it.
Kaelzar picks it up and carries it to the bed, sitting at the edge without waiting for permission.
He places the tray on the nightstand, then shifts, leaning over me.
His hands move on either side of my head.
My pulse hammers, so loud I swear he can hear it.
He’s adjusting my pillow, and the movement brings him close… so close.
I exhale sharply, the breath brushing his lips, and he stills, frozen above me. For a moment, neither of us move. My magic stirs beneath my skin, a jubilant burst of energy, feeding on my turmoil.
I go rigid, feeling it press against the cracks of my control. That seems to snap him out of it and he jerks back, then reaches for the tray, and sets it over my lap.
He picks up a spoon, scoops up some soup, and holds it to my lips.
I blink at him. “Are you really thinking of spoon-feeding me?”
“Eat,” he says softly.
“I can manage.” I lift my bandaged hands—stiff and useless. Then lower them again. “I’m not even that hungry.” My stomach betrays me with another growl.
Kaelzar’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t tease. “You need your strength,” he says, his voice gentle. “Let me help.” The quiet sincerity in his voice unravels my defenses.
Slowly, I part my lips.
The spoon touches them lightly, the warmth of the broth sliding down my throat. The first mouthful is awkward, and I don’t know where to look. The soup is too rich for an abandoned cabin, thick with herbs and salt, and my lips sting where they meet the metal.
He waits until I swallow before lifting another spoonful.
“And here I thought dancing and singing for you would top my list of humiliations,” I mutter. “But no, I outdo myself yet again.”
“It still ranks high among the other things you’ve done to save me,” he says, a flicker of humor in his eyes that quickly fades.
The memory of me throwing myself between him and the Fleshleech hangs between us.
He seems to think of it too, as his gaze drops to the floor.
The spoon scrapes idly against the bowl as he stirs, his earlier insistence that I eat already forgotten.
“Tease me with one spoonful and stop? Cruel,” I say, trying to lighten the air.
“I’ve been told I have a talent for prolonging the enjoyable parts,” he replies mindlessly. The words come fast, careless, and the meaning catches both of us at once. His eyes widen slightly, and he gives a small shake of his head, as if chastising himself.
Neither of us speaks for a beat too long. Then he exhales and scoops another spoonful, offering it again.
He feeds me like that—steady, unhurried. Between mouthfuls, his gaze drifts: the fire, the nightstand, anywhere but my face. The silence stretches.
By the time half the bowl is gone, my shoulders have relaxed. His hand no longer hesitates when he brings the spoon to my lips. When a drop of broth slips down my chin, I lift my wrapped hand to wipe it away, but he catches my wrist mid-motion.
“If you ruin my bandages, I’ll be very disappointed,” he says, mock stern. “I’d rather not redo them before morning.”
“Oh, so I’m completely useless now,” I mutter, letting my hand fall.
“You deserve to be taken care of for once,” he says quietly.
“People have taken care of me,” I say, maybe too defensively.
“Peonica once stole cough syrup from the royal healers when I had the winter fever. They said I needed to let my body heal naturally and build its own strength. But she felt awful for me, said she couldn’t stand another day of my coughing…
” I’m rambling as he reaches for the cloth on the tray.
“Though she then decided I wasn’t that sick after all and took it to the women of Rust Hollow instead.
Claimed I was sturdy as a bull and that a little suffering would build character. ”
My words fade as his hand finds my face.
“Sounds like she made the right call,” he says. “The world would be poorer without your iron constitution.”
His fingers are warm as he slowly wipes the corner of my mouth. The touch lingers, and my breath stutters.
“There,” he murmurs. “Properly cared for.”
“You’re enjoying this far too much,” I whisper.
His mouth curves slightly as he tears the bread into pieces small enough for me to manage without my hands. I chew in silence while the minutes slide by. The bowl empties before I realize it. His wrist brushes my chin as he tips the last of the broth toward me.
“Finished,” he says softly. “Now you rest.”
I shake my head. “You’re relentless.”
“Efficient,” he corrects, standing unhurriedly. Before I can protest, he moves the tray aside and eases me down against the pillows. The motion is quick but gentle, his palm steady at my shoulder until I’m settled.
“You’ve wrestled a helpless, injured girl,” I mutter. “Hope that makes you feel accomplished.”
He tucks the blanket around me, then leans back as his voice drops to a quiet challenge. “Ask me again when you’ve stopped blushing.”