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“Lady Peablossom.” Legion regally inclines his head. “Ladies Cobweb and Mustardseed. You have my eternal gratitude for my short notice.”
They curtsey as best they can without dropping their loads.
“What’s this?” Ignarius demands.
“Not your concern.” Legion motions for the females to enter.
“I thought you canceled class for other matters.”
“Perhaps you should heed your own lesson.” Legion tucks the folded paper inside Ignarius’s breast pocket. “One should never assume.”
Oh, he definitely received word of the lesson. Probably from Peablossom going by the doe-eyed devotion she flutters his way. Something ugly twists in my gut, and I’m too damn stubborn to give it a name. Thankfully, she herds the ladies upstairs.
Ignarius glares at me. This matter is far from over, but he leaves without another word.
In two brisk strides, Legion invades my space, and the air flees to make way for his intoxicating leathery scent. His accusatory gaze strips me bare. Lying now would be futile.
“You sparred with his Shadow?”
“Yes.” Why do I sound breathless?
“Yes, sir.”
For the Well’s sake. “Yes, sir,” I repeat.
“And you triumphed.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yet you wear no spoils of victory...” His lingering gaze trails heat down my body. “You claimed spoils from your tousle with Fox. Why not her?”
Does that mean he knows I stabbed Fox? Wait... he thinks I won? A goofy grin starts to form on my face, but I force it down. “If you want his clothes back?—”
“We have neglected our duty to provide you with basic needs.” His lips twist in self-disparagement, something I sense is a rare sight. “Which we will rectify now. But first, I must tend to your wounds. Show me.”
I don’t need your help.
My body goes rigid with denial, but the longer his eyes remain steady on me, the more that tension falls away. Eventually, I hold out my hands.
His tongue clicks with disapproval as he grazes his thumb along the welts.
“May I heal you?” It sounds like a request, but his tone is more of an order.
Still, the resistance within me is wilting. Today’s events battered my self-esteem.
“Yes,” I reply.
Ants scurry at his command, and my flesh knits together. No scars. Once satisfied with his work, his long lashes lift. He sees the gash left from headbutting Geraldine. He rubs his thumb over the bump.
“Are you hurt anywhere else?” His voice has become soft, intimate.
“Maybe my knee.”
He kneels, crumpling his elegant suit. The fall of his long, silken tresses as he bows sends shivers down my spine.
He bows like a knight before a queen, his wings spilling behind him, covering the ground as if to protect me from the gore and death.
The battlefield memory is as crisp in my mind as it was five years ago.
