Chapter 16
His eyes are open.
That's the first thing. Not where I am or what time it is or why my ribs feel like someone's been using them for practice. Just—his eyes. On me. White and patient and waiting, and my brain hasn't caught up yet but my body already knows something's wrong.
Too close. He's too close. Sitting on the edge of the bed with one knee drawn up, head tilted, watching me with an expression that makes my stomach go tight.
How long has he been—
"Morning," I say. My voice comes out wrecked.
His mouth curves. Barely. "You talk in your sleep."
"I do not."
"You do." He doesn't elaborate. Doesn't tell me what I said. Just lets that sit there, the bastard.
I push myself up on my elbows and—fuck—my ribs scream. The sound that comes out of me is somewhere between a hiss and a whimper.
Koshin's hands are there before I can brace myself. One at my shoulder, one at my lower back, taking my weight so smoothly I don't register the help until I'm already sitting upright.
"Careful." His voice is low. "You're still healing."
"I noticed." I breathe through my teeth. "The stabbing pain gave it away."
He doesn't move back. His hand stays on my lower back, warm through the thin fabric of whatever I slept in. One of his shirts. I'm wearing one of his shirts. When did that happen? How did that happen? Did he—
Don't.
"Food," he says, and it's not a question.
Before I can answer, he's standing, crossing to a low table I didn't notice before. There's food there—bread, some kind of cured meat, fruit sliced thin.
He carries the plate back to the bed, sets it on my lap, and sits next to me again. Still here. Still not moving back.
"Eat."
"You're very bossy for someone who—" I stop. For someone who what? Killed people for me? Saved my life? Keeps looking at me like I'm something worth looking at?
I pick up a piece of bread instead of finishing that sentence.
He watches me eat. Every bite. His eyes don't waver, don't drift, don't do any of the normal things eyes do when someone is sitting with you at breakfast. It's intense and unsettling and making my skin prickle in ways I refuse to think about.
My heartbeat picks up. Which is insane—he's watching me eat bread. That's not— there's nothing—
Except there is. The way his gaze tracks the movement of my jaw. The way it drops to my throat when I swallow. The way he's so completely present that it feels physical.
I take another bite.
My hand is not trembling.
It's not.
"You're staring," I say around the bread.
"Yes."
Great. Wonderful. This is fine.
I finish eating in silence. Every brush of my fingers against my lips, every shift of my weight on the mattress, every breath—he tracks all of it. I've never been this visible. This watched. This… seen.
I hate it.
I don't hate it.
I hate that I don't hate it.
When the plate is empty, he takes it from my lap. His fingers brush mine—briefly, but enough to send warmth licking up my wrist, my arm, settling somewhere behind my ribs.
Stop it.
Stop reacting.
He's a god and a killer and obviously insane and you are not doing this.
But my body doesn't listen.
My body has apparently decided that survival instincts are optional and is now running on some other set of instructions entirely.
Koshin sets the plate aside and turns back to me.
“Do you need help getting up?”
I shift toward the edge of the bed, and the movement wakes up every bruise I'd managed to forget about while lying still.
“My legs work perfectly fine, thank you very much."
I'm slower than I want to be.
He waits.
When I finally get my feet under me, my legs shake—just a little, just enough to be humiliating.
Koshin's hand catches my elbow and steadies me. Firm without being tight, careful without hesitating.
Gentle hands. This man with gentle hands who peels skin from bone for information.
The contrast should horrify me. Should send me stumbling backward, putting distance between us, remembering what he is and what he does and why I should be afraid.
Instead, my body leans into the support.
Traitor.
"I need—" I clear my throat. "I need to wash. And change."
He nods toward a door I hadn't noticed. "Through there. I'll wait."
The washroom is small and private and blessedly empty of him. I lean against the closed door and breathe.
Get yourself together.
Except that's impossible when he keeps touching me gently. When he keeps looking at me like I matter. My whole body is thrumming with want—and that's what this is, no point pretending otherwise.
Fuck.
I wash quickly, trying not to notice how my skin still feels lit up where his hands were. Trying not to notice how my reflection looks different somehow—flushed, awake, alive in a way I haven't felt in months.
There are clothes laid out on the chair. Clean. Folded.
I pick up the shirt first. Soft—softer than anything I've worn in years.
Black, fitted, with buttons that look like they're made of actual pearl.
The fabric has weight to it. Quality. The kind of thing Seris would have stolen for me back when we were stupid enough to think stealing nice things would make us feel like nice people.
The pants are the same. Dark charcoal, tapered at the ankle, with a high waist that will actually sit where it's supposed to instead of sliding down my hips every time I move. There's give in the fabric when I stretch it between my hands. Room to breathe. Room to run, if I needed to.
Not that I'm planning to run.
Not that I could run.
The shoes are black. Slip-ons with a low heel, pointed toe, something almost delicate about the shape of them. Feminine in a way I haven't been allowed to be in a long time. I turn one over in my hands. The sole is leather. Unmarked.
New. All of it, new.
Don't. Don't think about that.
I return to the main chamber.
Koshin is standing by the door, ready to leave. He looks me over once, head to toe, and something in his expression shifts. Settles. I don't want to know what that means.
"I'm going into the city," he says. "You're—"
"Wait, wait, wait." I hold up a hand. "I've got this one."
I square my shoulders. Drop my chin. Let my voice go flat and commanding, the way his does when he's being particularly insufferable.
"'You're coming with me, Iowyn. Because I said so. Because I'm a god and I do what I want. Don't argue. It's boring when you argue.'"
I even add the head tilt. The one that makes him look like he's considering eating someone.
Koshin goes still.
For a second I think I've actually pissed him off—which, fine, maybe worth it—but then his mouth curves. Slow. Dangerous.
"That was terrible," he says.
"That was perfect."
"You forgot the part where I tell you what happens if you try to run."
"I was getting to that. There's a whole second act."
He crosses the room. I hold my ground, because fuck him, I'm not backing up just because he's looking at me like that.
He stops close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
"Do it again," he says. Low. "The voice."
"Absolutely not."
"Coward." He’s smiling now.
"Fuck off."
He laughs. The sound scrapes through me, warm and rough, and I hate that I like it.
Arkenhold hits me the moment we step outside—noise and light and too many bodies after days in the dim quiet of his chambers.
The streets are packed. Mortals and lesser divine, merchants and servants and faces I don't recognize but who all seem to recognize him. They stare. Step aside. Create a path through the chaos without being asked, and I watch it happen, watch the crowd part around him like water around a stone.
Discord's territory. Discord's god. Discord's... what? What am I? Pet? Prisoner? The woman stupid enough to mouth off at breakfast?
A few gazes linger too long on me, taking in my face, my clothes, the careful distance I'm trying to maintain between us. A distance Koshin keeps closing. Every time I drift left, he drifts left. Every time I slow down, he's right there, shoulder brushing mine.
He's doing it on purpose. He has to be.
"Where are we going?" I ask.
"To eat."
"I already ate."
"To eat more." He sounds almost amused. "You need to rebuild your strength."
"Is this concern or are you fattening me up for later?"
He laughs, and the sound catches me off guard—rough and real.
We end up at a place near the market center. Open air, low tables, cushions instead of chairs. Public. Visible. Anyone could see us here, and anyone is definitely watching.
I start to lower myself onto a cushion and my ribs scream at me halfway down. I freeze, stuck in an awkward half-crouch, trying to figure out how to finish the movement without whimpering.
Koshin's hand finds my elbow. His other palm presses flat against my lower back, and he guides me down the rest of the way—slow, steady, taking most of my weight without making it obvious.
"I had it," I mutter.
"You were stuck."
"I was strategizing."
He doesn't dignify that with a response. Just waits until I'm settled on the cushion before folding himself down beside me with more grace than someone his size has any right to. He ends up close. Too close. Our knees brush.
He doesn't move away, but neither do I.
Food arrives without being ordered. Platters of things I don't recognize, rich and fragrant. Koshin pushes a dish toward me.
"Eat."
"You said that already."
"You haven't listened yet."
Asshole.
I eat because he's right, because my body wants more than I expected, because it gives me something to do with my hands besides think about how close he is.
How his knee keeps pressing against mine every time he shifts.
We eat in almost comfortable silence. Would be comfortable if I weren't so aware of every breath he takes.
"My sister."
The words fall out. I don't know where they came from, but Koshin goes still, that focus sharpening, and now I have to keep going or look like an idiot who just blurts out random family members for fun.