Chapter Twelve
Fenric
T he first thing I notice when I open my eyes is that I'm not dead. Which is a relief, considering how deeply humiliating it would have been to perish from a bee.
I blink against firelight flickering in the chamber. My throat feels like I’ve gargled gravel, and my chest aches like I’ve been trampled by the entire horde.
“…Is he awake?” I hear someone whisper.
I groan and lift my hand. Well, more like flop it dramatically.
“He lives,” someone responds dryly. I’d recognize that old crone's voice anywhere.
I crack an eye open and see Elda sitting beside the bed with that look she always has when she’s patching up warriors: one part relief, two parts exasperation.
Across from her stands Dakar, arms crossed, thunder on his brow.
Next to him, Maeve is gripping his arm and whispering something that is likely keeping him from exploding.
And there, perched on a stool like she’s trying to fold herself into the wall, is Annie.
My Annie.
My throat tightens again, but this time it’s not from death-by-insect. Her eyes are wide and glassy, cheeks blotchy, and she’s wringing her hands. I want to say something charming that will make her smile, but Elda beats me to the punch.
“If she hadn’t remembered what I taught her about elecampane,” she says, nodding toward Annie, “you’d be in the fields of the afterlife, Fenric.”
I push myself up on one elbow and wince. “So, I was finally bested… by a bee.”
Dakar growls and steps forward, eyes blazing. “You’re lucky the bee got to you before I did. I haven’t decided whether I’m relieved you’re alive or furious I didn’t get to throttle you first.”
I grin, mostly because I don’t know what else to do. “Glad to see I’m loved.”
“You’ve nearly started a war with the Northern Clans! ”
“I don’t care , she’s mine !”
Everyone looks at me in shock at my outburst. Annie makes a strangled sound. When I glance her way, she’s looking at the floor like she wants to be buried under it.
Elda clicks her tongue. “Enough shouting! The boy needs rest, and maybe a healthy fear of pollinators.”
Maeve squeezes her mate’s arm tighter. “Dakar. He almost died…”
“ Almost ,” Dakar snaps. “And if he pulls something that reckless again, I’ll finish the job. Maybe shove an entire beehive on his head and let the Gods sort it out.”
I cough out a laugh, which I immediately regret. My lungs are not ready for humor.
Dakar steps forward again, still glowering. “You two had better sell this whole‘mating bond’story until the visiting commander is gone. Or so help me, Fenric—”
Maeve clears her throat, giving him a sharp look. “He means: thank you, Annie. For saving him.”
Dakar grumbles and actually looks a little sheepish from his mate’s scolding.
“Yes. That.”
Elda rises from her chair. “He’ll live. But keep him off the tournament field and away from the garden.”
I make a scoffing sound that clearly says, Yeah, right. Elda ignores it, “Now, everyone out! Let the boy rest !”
The door shuts with a heavy thunk after Maeve, Dakar, and Elda leave, and the room falls quiet. I look at Annie sitting on the stool across from my bed, hair all in soft wisps around her face, her lashes lowered. I notice her hands are shaking.
“Little blossom,” I murmur. “Come here.”
She doesn’t move at first. Then, slowly, she rises and crosses the small space between us. She doesn’t sit on the bed. She kneels beside it, slipping her hand into mine.
“I thought you were dying,” she whispers, finally looking up at me. “You couldn’t breathe. You collapsed right in front of me. I didn’t know what to do, I just…I remembered what Elda said, and then I was chewing those herbs and—”
“And spitting them into my face like a mother bird?”
She lets out a wet laugh, then a horrified little gasp, covering her mouth. “I did not!”
I squeeze her hand. “You did, sweetheart. And I love you for it more than I’ve ever loved anyone.”
Her breath catches. Her eyes lift to mine, deep brown and shining, the lashes that frame them thick and delicate. She is so beautiful that it almost sucks the air right back out of me again.
I reach up with my free hand, tuck a loose curl behind her ear. She goes still beneath my fingers and everything in me aches to close the distance, to pull her into me, but I settle for taking her dainty hand in my own.
“I meant it. When I stood up in that hall and claimed you. I didn’t do it for politics or to make a show. I did it because I know what I want. And I want you, Annie.”
Her cheeks flush. “You don’t even know me.”
“I know your heart,” I say softly. “And I know I’d walk into another beehive if it meant you'd look at me the way you’re looking at me right now.”
“You’re ridiculous,” she breathes, but there’s no anger in it, and I grin.
She doesn’t pull away when I sit up more, wincing a little. I keep hold of her hand and give it a gentle tug. “Sit beside me.”
She hesitates for a second before climbing onto the bed next to me.
The mattress dips under her weight; the heat of her thigh is burning through the quilt where it presses against mine.
Fuck. She's too close. Close enough that her scent, vanilla and lavender, wraps around me.
I keep my gaze locked on our hands. Don't look at her mouth.
Don't think about how she bites her lip when she's nervous.
Definitely don't notice how her dress clings to every perfect curve, how the fabric stretches taut over—
Stars above.
I shift slightly, trying to relieve the sudden pressure in my leathers. Bad idea. The movement only brings us closer, her bare skin brushing mine in a way that sends electricity crackling down my spine. Every nerve ending is on fire, hyper-aware of every breath she takes, every tiny movement.
It's torture. The sweetest kind of agony.
I clench my free hand into the linens to keep from reaching for her. To keep from flipping her beneath me and showing her exactly what she does to me. My pulse hammers so hard I’m sure she can hear it, the frantic drumbeat of want, want, want.
One look at her face, and I’m undone.
Those wide eyes meet mine, and her tongue darts out to wet her full, soft lips. Fuck .
“Annie...”
If she doesn’t move soon, I won’t be able to stop myself from crossing every line. Her breath hitches, and she grips my hand harder.
Gods help me.
“I thought I was strong,” I tell her, my thumb brushing over hers. “But you might be the strongest person in this entire stronghold.”
Her exhale of an incredulous laugh whispers across my lips. It’s warm and sweet. Close enough to steal…
“Thank you for saving my life,” I say, and mean it with every scar, every breath, every beat of my not-dead heart. “Now let me spend the rest of it trying to deserve you.”
I don’t wait for an answer, I sit up in bed and kiss her.