Chapter 26
WOUNDS
FELíNE CRACKED AN EYELID. SHE groaned as a fresh ache rolled through her shoulder and radiated across her chest. Filtered morning sunlight spilled into Kal’s bedroom through the glass window pane, illuminating the floating dust motes that scattered as she shoved back the furs.
The door remained closed. Felíne woke alone. Again.
She’d wager her good arm that the rest of the cabin was similarly unoccupied.
The first few days after she’d gotten as drunk as a tavern-dweller so Kal could patch her up, Felíne did little more than lie in Kal’s enormous bed, shuffle to the washroom, and eat the food that mysteriously appeared any time she needed a meal.
It had been nearly a week since that first night. She hadn’t seen Kal since. In fact, she hadn’t seen anyone. She kept waiting for Meressian soldiers to barge in and arrest her. For Kal to bring the Cozened leaders and take her in chains. But no one came, and she was too nervous to leave.
Felíne remembered Kal stitching her through half-fogged memory.
She recalled the feel of his fingers probing her wound, the tug of the thread through her flesh, the nausea that rolled through her—though whether from the whiskey or the sight, she couldn’t say.
She had never been squeamish treating patients with Mender Alcuin, yet something about seeing her flesh torn open in jagged, angry lines and watching her blood and lymph ooze out of broken vessels had her choking back bile.
Her stomach tumbled at the recollection. She eyed the eggs and sliced pork on the side table, fragrant steam wafting from the plate, and decided against breakfast.
Felíne pulled back the neckline of her tunic to inspect her wounds. Kal’s future didn’t involve a career as a mender, but he hadn’t done a half-bad job. Her skin was still swollen and tender, but the redness had receded, and the sutures remained intact.
She’d survived a godsdamned grimalkin. The notion threatened to pull a bark of laughter from her.
Despite her childhood years of attempting what she’d considered to be dangerous feats, the worst injury Felíne had ever sustained was a fractured wrist after falling out of an orchard tree.
If she told her thirteen-year-old self that in eleven years she’d face down a bloodthirsty grimalkin and live to tell about it, she’d have laughed in her face.
Felíne scooted to the edge of the bed. She was reaching for the tin of salve when the bedroom door opened and Kal stepped inside.
Felíne froze.
He was in first form, clothed in a warm brown linen shirt that hung open at the collar, displaying the deep caramel-colored skin of his throat and chest, matching umber trousers, and sturdy leather boots.
The tension that radiated off of him hit her like a blow to the chest. Felíne had been alone so long, she’d almost forgotten the magnitude of his presence.
It wasn’t anger that saturated the room, but…
conflict. His brow was heavy, posture rigid, focus uncomfortably intense.
It took a moment for Felíne to realize he hadn’t readied himself to face some horrible foe—all that defensiveness was in preparation to face her.
Felíne dropped her hand and eased back against the headboard, unsure what to say.
Kal eyed the tin of salve, then narrowed his attention on the untouched food. His expression twisted into one of disappointment.
Irritation heated behind Felíne’s breastbone. “Have you come to gawk, then? Or to silently criticize my eating habits?”
“The lack thereof, you mean?” Kal’s voice was granite.
She looked away, angry at herself for feeling like a petulant child. “I’m not sure why you care.”
“Next time, I’ll leave you to bleed and bind yourself. Is that what you’d prefer me to have done?”
Felíne’s brow lowered, a twin to his. No.
Of course, he would evade her comment.
Kal hadn’t visited her once since the night he’d rescued her from the grimalkin and the trial, learned her true name, and stitched her wounds.
He knew who she was and left her alone. Whyever would a man whom the Cozened called Battle Master wish to keep company with the traitorous Prima of Asteros?
Petty though it might be, Felíne would be lying if she said it didn’t hurt her feelings.
And yet…instead of bringing soldiers, he brought her food. Beyond that, he cared whether or not she ate it. He left her medicine. Provided her shelter from her enemies. He hadn’t spent time with her, but he also hadn’t left.
Underlying emotion and posturing aside, lies or truth, Kal cared. Not about Railah. About her.
The irritation left her like water from a wrung towel. “Why are you doing this?”
Wariness crept into his dark eyes. “Doing what?”
Felíne tugged her neckline down again, gestured to the salve and food. She didn’t miss the way his attention snagged on her exposed flesh. “Helping me.”
“You offered to patch me up on more than one occasion. I could ask you the same question.”
“That was different,” she said. “I didn’t hate you.”
A muscle feathered in Kal’s jaw. His expression remained carefully neutral. “Why would you think I hate you?”
“Are you going to make me say it?”
Kal didn’t answer. Instead, he asked, “When I entered, were you reaching for the food or the salve?”
“The salve,” Felíne said automatically, caught off guard by the abrupt change in topic.
Kal dragged a chair to the edge of the bed where Felíne sat and retrieved the shallow tin of ointment.
Her hands shook only slightly as she pulled the neckline down, giving him access to her shoulder and clavicle.
She barely breathed as he dipped his fingers into the fragrant balm and gently rubbed it onto her wounds.
This time, there was no whiskey in her system to dull her sensation. The claw marks burned. And beneath the ache, another fire, one that had nothing to do with the grimalkin’s attack, danced to the surface of her skin.
“My parents are the reason your family is dead,” Felíne whispered.
Kal kept his onyx eyes trained on his task. When he finally responded, his voice was quiet and even. “Did you plot with the King and Queen of Asteros to murder my parents?”
“No, but—”
“Then it would be pointless for me to exact revenge upon you for their deaths. I am not so emotional, nor so reckless.” He met her gaze. “I have been planning my vengeance for a very long time. I won’t waste it on the wrong person.”
Felíne saw the sincerity in his countenance. It was written into every line of determination in his beautiful face.
Kal planned to kill her parents.
Something profound and uncomfortable squirmed in the pit of Felíne’s belly.
She wasn’t sure what to do with that certainty.
She could hardly blame him. What she didn’t understand was how perfectly reasonable he was being.
She’d expected wrath. Fury. Violence, even.
The likes of which she’d only glimpsed that first night. Not…this.
“I lied to you,” she said. “I pretended to be someone I wasn’t.”
Kal’s fingertips hovered over her collarbone. “Yes. Why did you do that?”
“I was afraid.”
“At first, of course. But after…” He trailed off.
After what? After he saved her life? After he kissed her? After he promised she was safe with him? That she could trust him?
“Why maintain the ruse?” he asked instead.
“I…” Why indeed? She could have told him.
Likely should have. Maybe all of this mess and heartache could have been avoided if she’d just taken Kal at his word and trusted him with her truth.
Wasn’t that one of his core traits? A man of his word?
He’d already surprised her with his capability for rationality.
Perhaps that was where the real hurt lay. Maybe that’s why he couldn’t bring himself to face her until nearly a week had passed. Her underestimation of Kal’s ability to handle her honesty hadn’t simply made him angry; it had wounded him. She had hurt his feelings.
“Never mind,” he said before she could formulate an appropriate response.
“It’s clear enough now that you’re not a spy for the crown.
” He sat back, setting the tin of salve on the table.
“What I’d like to know is why the supposed Prima of Ilistaar was outside the palace grounds in the middle of the night wearing a Fate’s cloak. ”
“It wasn’t mine. It belonged to my elder.”
“So, you’re a liar and a thief.”
Felíne’s flicker of annoyance resurfaced, remembering all the times she’d accused him of the same. “I borrowed it. I didn’t know the significance when I took it.”
“That still doesn’t explain why you were in the garden.”
Exhaustion weighed Felíne down like an anchor, as though she hadn’t just enjoyed a full night’s rest in Kal’s unreasonably comfortable bed. “I just…” Gods, that night in the garden seemed so long ago. How did she explain what she’d been seeking in a way he would understand? “It’s complicated.”
He gave her a look that spoke volumes. Really? I’d say we’re way past complicated.
Touché.
Felíne took a breath. “I spent my entire life conforming to everyone else’s expectations of me.
Years of study and preparation. Forcing myself to be the perfect daughter and pupil.
It just culminated so quickly, and I…I wasn’t ready.
” A bitter laugh escaped her at the irony.
All that preparation to remain so unprepared.
“But that wasn’t something I could ever admit.
” No. The Prima had to suffer with a smile.
She shook her head. “I just wanted a night, a few hours to myself without the weight of a million lives on my chest.” Felíne fell quiet, the silence between them louder than any spoken word.
“I thought I might find a moment of peace in that garden. Instead, I found you.”
Kal went rigid. His expression was unreadable, his irises churning with something she couldn’t quite place. He sat close to her, torso angled forward. Felíne’s body responded, leaning toward him like the tide pulled to the coaxing moon.
“Kal…”
Her word fractured the moment, snapping him back to himself. He stood, features once again guarded, and she looked away. “You should eat. Your body needs the nutrients to heal.”
He didn’t have to say it. He knew that she knew. Felíne was powerless as she watched him fold the tender parts of himself behind that unbreachable iron will. She swallowed thickly. “Thank you.”
Kal nodded and turned his back to her.
Felíne didn’t want him to leave. She could barely stand the distance between them as it was, this divide she had created, and she hadn’t the faintest idea how to fix it. She feared that whatever fragile thing had begun to blossom between them had been irreparably damaged. Sudden tears threatened.
“What happens now?” she asked.
Kal paused at the threshold. “I don’t know. I need to speak with Saul. The Conclave will demand an explanation for my…behavior. I’m sure they’re wondering why I haven’t yet provided one.” His shoulders tightened. “As far as they’re concerned, you’re still a potential threat.”
Felíne wasn’t a warrior, but she knew what they did with threats—they neutralized them. “Are you going to tell them who I am?”
Kal gripped the door handle. “I don’t know who you are.”
“But you said—”
“I said it was apparent you weren’t a spy. Whether or not you are who you claim is yet to be seen. All I know for certain is that you aren’t Railah Harless.” His knuckles tightened, whitening. “Until I determine the rest, you should stay here.”
You should stay here.
Like it was a casual suggestion. Like he didn’t care one way or another if she complied.
“And if I decide to leave?”
Kal shrugged, and the nonchalance of his gesture gutted her.
“Rask knows your face. The Conclave was robbed of its trial. Use your imagination.” He opened the door then but wavered at the exit.
“No one in Meress is foolish enough to force their way into my home. It might be the only place in Ilistaar strictly off limits to the Cozened.”
And there it was, another infant spark of hope. One more tentative thread of compassion. Felíne saw it for what it was—a lifeline. Kal’s house was the only place she was safe, and he was offering it to her.
With those parting words, Kal left the bedroom and closed the door quietly behind him, leaving Felíne with an ache in her chest that sank deeper than any physical wound ever could.