Chapter 18 – Quinton
QUINTON
Iknocked at midday, honey cinnamon pastries wrapped in cloth and tucked under my arm. The door opened faster this time. No hesitation.
Azaria stood there, hair loose around her shoulders, dressed in soft gray. She looked better than yesterday—less exhausted, more present. Her eyes were clearer.
“You came back,” she said.
“I said I would.”
Her mouth curved slightly. “People say a lot of things.”
“I’m not people.”
She stepped aside and let me in. The sitting room was brighter today: curtains pulled back, afternoon light streaming through the windows. She’d been reading, a book left open on the low table, a cup of tea still steaming beside it.
I held up the pastries. “Brought these. Thought you might be tired of whatever Myrin’s been forcing you to eat.”
She blinked. Stared at the cloth bundle. “Are those?—”
“Honey cinnamon,” I said. “From your favorite baker. The one near the willow tree, without the thumb.”
Surprise flickered across her face. Then recognition. Maybe warmth.
“You remembered,” she said.
“I remember everything.”
She looked at me for a long moment, then took the pastries. “Thank you.”
We settled into the sitting room: her on the sofa, me in the armchair across from her.
Close, but not crowding. My blood magic pulsed faintly, aware of her presence, but quieter today.
Less frantic. She unwrapped the pastries, took one, and bit into it.
Her eyes closed briefly. “Gods, I missed these.”
I watched her, something tight easing in my chest. She was here, eating, almost smiling. “How are you feeling?” I asked.
“Better.” She set the pastry down and brushed crumbs from her fingers. “Stronger. Myrin says I’m recovering faster than expected.”
“That sounds like you.”
Her mouth twitched. “Stubborn, you mean.”
“I was going to say resilient.”
“Stubborn works too.”
Silence settled between us. Comfortable.
Easy. She picked up her tea and took a sip.
Her hand trembled slightly, and she set the cup down with the kind of deliberate care that meant she didn’t trust her grip.
I watched her register the tremor, watched the flash of irritation cross her face before she smoothed it away.
“How are you doing?” I asked. “Really.”
She looked at me, considering. Then sighed. “Better. Stronger.” A pause. “But some things are still difficult.”
“Like what?”
She was quiet for a moment, fingers tracing the edge of the teacup.
“Touch,” she said. The word came out flat.
Clinical. “I’m struggling with it. People getting too close.
Unexpected contact.” Her jaw tightened. “I flinch. Or freeze. Like my body forgot how to exist near people without treating them as a threat.”
My heart ached.
“Dain came to see me,” she continued. “At the very beginning. In the Healer’s Wing. I don’t remember it. Don’t remember him being there at all.” She looked down at her hands. “He told me later. Said I didn’t recognize him. Just sat there twisting my ring.”
I remembered that. Dain telling me. The way it had broken something in my chest. “That must be hard,” I said. “Not remembering.”
“It is.” She met my eyes, and her voice hardened. “But it’s worse knowing that everyone saw me like that. And I have no memory of it. No chance to—“ she stopped. Clenched her jaw. “I don’t like being seen at my worst when I can’t even defend myself against the memory.”
That wasn’t vulnerability. That was fury. At the council, at the situation, at the fact that her body had betrayed her in front of people she led.
Silence stretched.
“Can I try something?” I said.
Her eyes flicked up. Wary. Curious.
“It might help,” I said. “With the touch. But only if you want. And you can tell me to stop anytime.”
She studied me for a long moment. I could feel her pulse through my magic: elevated, cautious, but steady. Then she nodded. “All right.”
I stood, moved around the low table, and crouched in front of her. Eye level. Close enough that she could see my hands, my face, every movement before it happened.
Her pulse spiked immediately. Tension flooded her shoulders, and her fingers curled against the sofa cushion.
“You can see me,” I said. “I’m right here. Not going anywhere.”
She inhaled. Held it. Let it go.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” I said. “Say the word and I’ll stop.”
She nodded once.
I reached out, letting her watch my hand the whole way. No surprises. Nothing she couldn’t track. My fingertips grazed the back of her hand, where it rested on her knee.
She tensed. Hard.
I didn’t move. Kept my fingers there, barely touching, letting her feel the contact without pressure. “Breathe,” I murmured.
She did. Shallow at first. Then deeper. Her pulse was still fast, but the rigid lock in her shoulders eased a fraction.
I traced my fingers up over her knuckles, along the back of her hand, following the line of her wrist. Gentle and deliberate. Giving her time to adjust to every inch of contact. She could see all of it: my hand on hers, the movement, the intent. Her breathing evened.
I continued along her forearm, feather-light. My blood magic tracked her pulse, her breath, the way her muscles unclenched by slow degrees. When I reached the inside of her elbow, I paused. Then traced back down the inside of her forearm this time. Softer skin. More vulnerable.
Her breath hitched. I stopped. “Too much?”
“No,” her voice came out rough. “Keep going.”
I continued. Down the inside of her forearm, over her wrist, across her palm. She watched my hand the entire time. I could feel her gaze on my fingers, tracking every movement, proving to herself that there was no threat here. Her hand opened beneath mine. Fingers relaxed.
By the time I reached her fingertips, her breathing was deep and steady. Her pulse had settled. The tension had drained from her shoulders. She closed her eyes. Her head tilted back slightly.
I stayed there for a moment, tracing patterns across her palm, letting her feel what touch could be when it wasn’t a threat. When it was a choice. Then I drew my hand back, giving her space. Her eyes opened.
“You good?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she whispered.
Relief hit me so hard my hands shook with it.
She looked down at her hand—the one I’d traced—and flexed her fingers. Testing them. Relearning. “Thank you,” she said.
I moved back to the armchair and gave her the distance. “Anytime,” I said.
She picked up her tea and took a sip. Her hands were steadier now. Not perfect. But steadier.
We sat in comfortable silence for a while. No pressure. No expectations.
Eventually she looked at me, mouth curving. “You’re good at that,” she said.
“At what?”
“Not pushing.”
I met her eyes. “You’ve had enough people pushing you. I will not be one of them.”
Her expression eased. Not the softness of surrender, but more like recognition. Like she was filing something away about me she hadn’t expected.
“I know,” she said.
The light shifted outside, afternoon fading toward evening.
I stood. “I should go. Let you rest.”
She nodded, but didn’t move from the sofa. She was watching me with something unreadable in her eyes.
I paused at the door. “Can I come back tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Same time?”
“Same time.”
I smiled. “I’ll bring more pastries.”
Her mouth curved. The closest to a full smile I’d seen since Solmarin. “You’d better.”
I pulled the door shut behind me.
I stood in the street, hands still tingling where I’d touched her. My blood magic hummed low and warm, settling for the first time in weeks. She’d let me touch her. Hadn’t flinched or frozen. She had watched my hand the whole way and chosen to let it happen.
Tomorrow, I’d come back. And the day after that.
For as long as she’d let me.