Chapter 7 Locked Eyes
LOCKED EYES
Later that day, the healer arrived like a storm wearing boots. The heavy oak doors groaned open, spilling him into the chamber in a whirl of clinking vials and swaying fabric, as if the fates had personally summoned him, or perhaps simply because he had sniffed out an audience.
The wide-brimmed hat went first, feather flashing violet as it caught the torchlight, and then the scent followed close behind: juniper, cloves, and something stranger, wafting into the air like mischief.
“Well, well, well,” the man said, his grin belonging more to a trickster god than a medic. “If it isn’t the Prince of Gloom and his mystery guest. Didn’t know you were collecting strays again, Jakobav.”
She hadn’t noticed when Jakobav returned. He was simply there again—silent as a shadow—and gods, it set her teeth on edge.
He stood near the hearth with his arms crossed, his expression a dam holding back something dangerous.
“She’s still injured, Bryn,” Jakobav said flatly.
“I know that, princeling,” Bryn replied cheerfully, dropping a basket that rattled like a box of knives. “I’d like to think my healing is aging like fine Fae wine, because I’ve never been more certain someone was about to die. But you insisted I save her anyway. And look, I did.”
Jakobav’s jaw flexed, a muscle ticking as though the healer had revealed more than he had intended to be known.
“Oh, forgive me,” Bryn said, sketching a mocking little bow. “Did I trample all over your grand amusement? Ah well. You know what they say about best-laid plans…” His grin turned feral, teeth catching the firelight. “They rot faster than corpses.”
Jakobav’s gaze cut to him, cold enough to still blood in the vein. It would have flattened a lesser man. Bryn only hummed, unfazed, and set about unpacking his basket.
“She’s not one of ours. You can smell the southern dirt on her.” Bryn sniffed the air, eyes glinting. “Or is that blood? Hard to tell with foreigners.”
Ella stiffened, refusing to flinch beneath his inspection. The healer had already saved her life and was likely the one who had stripped away her blood-soaked clothes that first night, then dressed her in something clean.
Unless it had been Jakobav, the thought slid cold through her veins, grating like ice against bone.
Jakobav’s face was stone-hard, all severity, not a shred of compassion, still scowling at Bryn.
There was no way in hell that brute had been the one to drag her into clean linen.
Surely it was done by the healer and for the sake of preventing infection.
Bryn was older, but there was nothing soft about him. He looked strong but spry, with sharp gray eyes that gleamed like moonlit steel, like he could recite a sacred rite or punch someone in the throat, and you’d never know which was coming first.
What had he meant about collecting strays?
Was that truly how Jakobav saw her, nothing more than a wounded animal dragged into his keep, another broken thing he had decided to cage?
The thought was ridiculous because a man like him didn't waste his time on shattered creatures, certainly not on an intruder who’d spilled his guard’s blood and defied the wards.
No, whatever Jakobav was doing with her was not pity. It was colder, far more ruthless.
He stood there silent, shadow carved deep along the lines of his jaw, his presence unreadable as obsidian, his attention never wavering from her.
Her thoughts tangled, threatening to betray her resolve, and she fought to breathe. It must be Bryn’s herbs clouding her judgment, but perhaps it was not the healer’s smoke or tinctures at all, but Jakobav himself.
“I’m Bryn,” the healer finally said, casting a judgmental glance in her direction. “Don’t worry, dear. I’m not one to pry. Unless I’m bored. Which, unfortunately for you, I am. Deeply.”
Jakobav took the basket without looking away from Ella. “Go home, Bryn.” His voice was flat and quiet, but the promise threaded through it made the torchlight shiver.
“Not until I see the wounds,” Bryn sing-songed.
Ella tried to sit straighter. “I don’t need help. I can handle myself.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” Bryn replied, rolling up his sleeves. “But if you start glowing, I’d like to be forewarned. I’ve got a salve for that. Smells like burnt socks. Works wonders.”
He flicked a hand at Jakobav. “You heard me, Your Highness. Out. Shoo. If you’re not bleeding or useful, you’re in my way. Door’s that way.”
Jakobav muttered something under his breath and stalked out of the room. He didn’t slam the door, but he might as well have.
To Ella’s surprise, satisfaction sparked in her chest.
The brooding prince didn’t like being dismissed. Good.
Some small part of her lifted at that. Maybe she could start to like the quirky healer. It was a thought she never expected to have about anyone from Dravaryn.
The moment the door closed behind him, Bryn’s demeanor shifted, only slightly, but enough.
His tone remained light, but his gray eyes sharpened as he crouched beside her. “Let’s see what damage the grumpy one missed.”
He began to carefully examine the multitude of her injuries, his eyes softening just slightly. “He’s always like that, you know... Tragic. Handsome. Useless at parties.”
Ella rolled her eyes but smiled a little despite herself.
He unwound the wraps at her ribs, clicking his tongue when he saw the work beneath. “I should have known better when Jake said he was tending you at night. Swapping bandages in the dark like an apprentice.”
Ella froze.
He’s been…what?
Heat surged before she could stop it, a flush rising under her skin.
Jakobav, the merciless, scowling Prince of Dravaryn, had been playing healer in the night while she slept in his bed?
Her heart thudded hard against her ribs, breath hitching despite herself.
Gods, she was sweating.
She flattened her expression, biting down on the betrayal of her own body. No way would she let Bryn see her unravel.
“Saints alive,” he muttered. “Jake did this? A blindfolded toddler with kitchen twine would have done better. He should’ve fetched me sooner.”
Ella managed a weak shrug, though she found it darkly amusing to hear Jakobav likened to a blindfolded toddler, so she gave Bryn a half-smile.
Bryn kept going. “Honestly, I’ve seen better wrappings on roast poultry. At least those get basted.”
His touch was surprisingly meticulous for all his chaos, and he worked quickly, muttering to himself as he applied pungent salves and unstoppered a bottle of something that smelled like lightning.
“Jakobav wouldn’t say,” Bryn remarked as he stitched a gash with swift, practiced hands, “but I assume you’re the reason the First Guard is still surrounding the castle.”
Ella flinched, and not from pain.
His eyes lingered too long at her collarbone, locked on the spot where the tattoo should have been. It was hidden, yet under his gaze she felt exposed, as if he could see straight through to the mark she carried.
“Don’t move,” Bryn murmured.
Ella held her breath as he closed the stitching and covered the wound.
Then he leaned in, voice pitched low. “Not that it’s any of my business, but whatever you are, you’ve got the Prince rattled. And believe me, that’s rarer than a sober Fae.”
He studied her, eyes glinting with amusement rather than malice. “You planning on breaking him?”
She narrowed her eyes. “What in the hell are you talking about?”
Bryn winked. “Good. Keep him guessing.”
She exhaled in a rush, too drained to laugh but too honest to hide the hint of humor. “You’re deranged.”
“Your injuries are just starting to heal. Try not to get gutted like a goat at a solstice sacrifice,” Bryn said briskly, already shifting to her leg. “Or at least do it somewhere less tedious for me to sew shut.”
Her eyes fluttered shut as the salve burned, then cooled, her limbs sinking until her mind grew too foggy to resist the pull of sleep.
Bryn’s voice followed her down into the dark. “Rest now. You’ll need strength. To survive your enemies…and allies.”
He rose, brushing a sprig of something that had to be illegal in all four kingdoms from his sleeve. “Dravaryn has never been short on either.”