“Sure. If 'fine' means 'mauled by a hatchling.'”
His pestle never stops its circular motion, but the corner of his mouth twitches upward before his expression hardens again.
“You should see the other guy.”
“I heard.” The door clicks shut behind me. “What do you need?”
“Solitude would be nice.”
“Not happening.”
“Why are you here, Esme? Enjoying the show?”
A dry laugh escapes me, covering the tightness in my throat. “Always. But those burns need attention.”
“Just a mineral compress.” He nods at his work. “Old dragon remedy.”
With a snap of his fingers, the mixture ignites in emerald flame, then settles into a black paste shot through with green.
“Let me help,” I insist, sliding onto the chair beside him.
Our knees brush as I lean in. My pulse quickens, and I hate that I'm relieved he's alive.
“I don't need your help,” he says, jaw clenched.
“Too bad.” I reach for the bowl. “You're getting it anyway.”
His eyes narrow. “Careful, Salem. Someone might think you care.”
“Don't flatter yourself.” I meet his gaze. “I've invested too much time planning your death to let someone else steal the privilege.”
Something shifts in his expression—a surrender I've never seen before. He tilts his head, exposing the angry welts along his neck. The gesture feels strangely intimate.
“Thin layer,” he murmurs, voice dropping an octave. “Cover everything.”
I dip three fingers into the mixture. “Got it.”
The substance clings to my skin as I trace the contours of his jawline. Heat radiates from the burns, and my fingertips tingle where they connect with his flesh. My breathing shallows.
“This stuff is burning me,” I whisper.
“It's supposed to.”
“Shouldn't burns get cold treatment?”
One corner of his mouth lifts, and my stomach does something inconvenient.
“Dragon fire requires dragon medicine,” he says. “By tomorrow, you won't even know it happened.”
The paste hardens almost instantly, forming a protective shell.
“So,” I break the loaded silence. “The Braynors want you dead.”
“Join the club,” he mutters, looking away.
“But you're supposed to be their golden boy. Literally and metaphorically. The triumphant prince returns and all that. What changed?”
He shakes his head once. “Not your problem.”
