Chapter 8
“You get yourself back in bed, or I’ll drag you there myself.” Felda’s biting threat brought me up short, halfway off the bed.
My own bed.
Not because Harthon had kicked me out of his, but because when I eventually came to my senses and realized I probably shouldn’t have kissed him, I felt it was the smart choice to make. He’d been the one to carry me here, refusing to let me walk, even though my room was right next door.
“Did you hear me? Your body was damaged, not your ears.”
I rolled my eyes, grateful my back was to the old woman. “The healer said I can move now.”
“You already have. Four times, mind you,” she scolded.
Yesterday—day two of healing—had been the first time I’d ever talked back to her. Pain, tiredness, and frustration had dulled my fear of her bad temperament. Now, it seemed I couldn’t stop.
“He didn’t give me a limit.”
Dishes clattered. I turned to see her behind me, hands on her wide hips, a scowl wrinkling her chin. A tray of food sat on the bedside table. “He didn’t give you a limit because he thought you had more sense than a toddler. Clearly, he was wrong.”
Across the room, Frannie changed the water in my washing bowl. I didn’t know how she dealt with Felda day in and day out. It was a true talent.
“I’m—”
“Bed. Now.” She pointed at the ruffled spot where I’d laid for almost two days straight.
Heaving a sigh, I scooted backward, knowing I’d lose this battle. The door to my room swung open, and I caught a glimpse of North’s bald head in the hallway before Harthon crossed the threshold.
Harthon hadn’t exaggerated about guarding me. Either North or Callen had been outside my room at all hours. North probably wanted to kill me with his own hands at this point. Domus knew I was pulling him away from other, more desirable tasks, like ripping heads off of dolls.
Felda whirled around to face Harthon. “Good. Maybe you can make her stay in one place.”
She really just said that to her Princeps. And not just any Princeps, but one with a ruthless reputation and the ability to snap a neck within a second.
Harthon merely frowned. “The healer said she can move. I don’t see the problem.”
Felda looked from him, to me, then back to him. She threw her hands in the air. “You’re all the same. Reckless fighter types, too stubborn for your own good. It’s no wonder you’ve ripped so many of your own stitches.”
“She isn’t going into battle. Just walking.” He looked at me. “Right?
I rolled my eyes again. “I’ve only moved four times today. And that was all within this room. Ten steps at most.” I’d use Frannie as a witness if needed. Though by the way she silently kept her head down by the washing station, she did not want to get involved in this conversation.
“Have any of her wounds reopened?” Harthon asked.
Felda glared—glared—at him. “No, but they will if she does too much, and whose fault will that be? Hmm?”
Harthon seemed more entertained than offended, one side of his mouth hitching up as he said, “It won’t be your fault. I absolve you of all blame if Etarla opens her wounds.”
Felda grumbled beneath her breath, shaking her head. “She needs to heal.”
“She will. I’ll take care of her for the next few hours, and I take full responsibility for whatever state you find her in afterward.”
The old woman wasn’t the least bit mollified by that, harrumphing as she waved to Frannie and they bustled out the door.
“Are you trying to punish me?” I asked once we were alone.
Confusion wrinkled his face. “Why would you say that?”
I waved my hand at the door Felda just walked through.
“She’s excellent at her job, and she cares about you.” He handed me the bowl of stew from the bedside table.
“She has an interesting way of showing care,” I said, eating a few spoonfuls of the beef and carrot stew. The recipe would normally call for potatoes, but with the current disease killing our potato crops, the Citadel was rationing like the rest of the Territory.
“Believe it or not, she’s been known to give hugs every once in a while.”
I nearly spat out my broth. “Now you’re just lying.”
“That’s quite the accusation.” He leaned in, the scent of leather and musk curling around me. “I’ve received one or two of her hugs myself.”
The spoon paused halfway to my mouth. So many things about that statement were unexpected. One, that Felda gave hugs. Two, that a Princeps allowed himself to be hugged by a chambermaid. And three, that Felda would willingly offer one of her rare hugs to a man most Territories feared.
Reading my face, he said, “You don’t believe me.”
“No sane person would believe what you just said.”
His cheeks wrestled with a smile. “Seems like you’re making baseless assumptions.”
“They aren’t baseless. They’re grounded in evidence. Felda is as prickly as North, and you’re not the type to go around requesting hugs.”
“Are you saying I don’t like hugs?”
“You remove criminals’ body parts when they talk back to you.” Among a variety of other dangerous tendencies.
“That may be true.” He brought a finger to his lips, drawing my attention to where it didn’t need to go. “But need I remind you that we hugged just a few days ago?”
Okay, so we were going to talk about that incredibly intimate moment. I would have expected him to sweep it under the rug, but he didn’t.
“That wasn’t a hug.”
“Wasn’t it? My arms were around you, holding you to my chest. If not a hug, then what would you consider that?” he challenged.
“A…hold.” Then a kiss.
A kiss which he was currently remembering, because he glanced at my lips.
A kiss that I was not going to overthink because there was too much to untangle there. It’d been a kiss of comfort, and that was all.
“If I’m willing to hold you, why wouldn’t I accept a simple hug from a motherly old woman?”
I really couldn’t believe I was having this conversation with a man renowned for his violence. “This is a ridiculous conversation.”
He smirked. “So you admit defeat.”
“No, I don’t. But my stew is getting cold, and I’m trying to end this conversation so I can eat,” I snapped. “Why are you here, anyway?”
Harthon hadn’t spent any time with me after he carried me here from his bedroom. According to Callen, he was busy determining who was behind my attack and making plans to get to First Territory once I recovered. But I did know he’d been checking up on me frequently, asking for reports.
I’ll admit that part of me thought he’d been avoiding me after our kiss, but considering he just brought it up, he didn’t seem keen on forgetting it.
“Demanding,” he commented. “Yet again, you seem to forget who is in charge.”
“Sir Princeps Harthon. Your Grace. Your Eminence. Would you so kindly do me the honor of informing me why you are within this room?”
He chuckled, the throaty sound tickling something within me. “Your Grace is a bit too…dainty for my preferences.”
I blinked. “Your Terrifying-ness.”
He cocked his head, considering the term. “Better. As for why I’m here, Cal tells me you keep asking about Stefano, and Stefano keeps asking about you, so I’m bringing you to visit him.”
Finally. Last I’d heard, Stefano was still recovering from his wounds. I’d been dying to check on him, needing to see for myself that he was okay and smack him upside the head for nearly dying for me.
“Felda’s going to give you an earful for allowing me to walk to another part of the Citadel.”
“I can handle Felda.”
“If you say so.” I set the stew down.
Harthon shifted in front of me, preventing me from swinging my legs over the bed. He nodded at the bowl. “Finish the stew first. Then we’ll go.”
I shook my head. “Let’s go now.”
He didn’t move. “It wasn’t a request. Eat.”
I peered up at him, not liking the demand in his tone. Seconds ago, when he’d made a reference to who gave orders around here, he’d been joking. Now, he wasn’t.
“No.”
His expression became steely. “No isn’t an option.”
I drew back. “Then what is an option?”
“Eating, or the word ‘yes.’”
Stubbornness morphed into something ugly. “If acquiescence is the only response you’ll accept, then I have no options. And if I have no choices, then you’re taking away my autonomy. In which case, you still consider me to be a traitor. Your prisoner.”
After my conversation with Ana, I’d finally assumed we were past the whole “prisoner” situation. Maybe I was being dramatic, taking what started as an innocent conversation in this direction…or maybe I wasn’t.
Silence stretched. When he finally spoke, he didn’t confirm or deny my statement. He only said, with utter implacability, “You aren’t getting up from this bed until you eat.”
I clenched my jaw. “What am I, Harthon?”
He dropped his fists into the mattress, bringing his face level with mine. “You are the woman who’s going to eat your damned stew before you see Stefano, because sustenance is what allows you to heal, and I need you to heal.”
That didn’t answer my question at all.
He straightened and handed me the bowl. I glared at him, refusing to take it.
“I’m not above feeding you,” he threatened.
Knowing he would follow through, I pulled the bowl from his hands and began to eat with more aggression than necessary.
He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping.
“We’re going to First after the Conquering Day celebration,” he informed me.
“We’ll be visiting Sixth and staying with Aric first. He’ll see it as a diplomatic gesture, acknowledging our alliance.
But it’ll also allow us to see what he knows about First, scout the area, and rest before crossing those borders. ”
The childish part of me didn’t feel like talking to him. But the mature part, the one with the multicolored eyes and a duty to uphold, had to.
Albeit with a short tone.
“Is the Conquering Day celebration just an anniversary of the day you took over the Territory?”
“Yes.”
I couldn’t help but say, “Creative name.”