“What do you think will happen to me if you’re dead when we arrive?”
“A cut won’t kill me. Well, not unless a fever sets in.”
“I should have stayed in the damned stronghold,” I muttered. “Take your jacket off.”
“Why?”
“You need to be bandaged, and I’m the only one who can do it. And it’s going to take all my concentration to keep my lunch in my body, so stop arguing.”
He shifted on the seat, pulled his uninjured arm from the jacket, then tried to pull off the sleeve on the injured arm. After two tries, he looked back at me. “I know the timing for what I’m about to say is very poor”—he paused—“but I need you to help undress me.”
I just looked at him.
“I’m sorry.”
I took a deep breath, mostly to manage my frustration. Then I shifted to the seat opposite him, gripped the cuff, and yanked. It didn’t move. “Why is this so damned tight?”
“It’s the style. So we look strong and imposing.” He seemed more relaxed now, either because the pain had loosened his tongue or because he’d thrown off the burden of his lie.
“It’s ridiculous.”
“Much about royalty is.”
“Don’t do that,” I said. “Don’t make light of your power—something people are literally willing to kill for.” I stood up, braced a foot against the bottom of the bench, and gripped his cuff. “Prepare yourself.”
I pulled, and he swore, and I ended up on my back on the opposite bench, coat in hand.
“Your Highness?” Yue called out as I tossed it aside.
“I’m fine,” he said. “Fox has a unique way of venting her frustration.”
“I had to take off his fancy jacket.” Now that it was gone, I could see the pale linen shirt he wore beneath it, and the blood that streaked across his upper arm. And I closed my eyes when the world began to spin and spots appeared at the edges of my vision.
“He’s bleeding and I’m going to bandage it,” I said, loud enough for her to hear over the pounding of hooves. “Don’t stop the carriage!”
“You’re brave, Fox.”
“I didn’t ask for commentary, Your Highness.”
When I felt ready again, I opened my eyes. I’d need to clean the wound. But first, I needed to check something. “Push up your sleeves.”
“Now you’re eager to undress me?”
I stared at him, and he relented, pushing up his sleeves. The forearm of his injured arm was streaked with blood from the gash on his biceps but bore no marks from the Aetheric. His other arm was clean as well. One less thing to worry about.
“The Aetheric didn’t mark me,” he said.
“Good. Luna won’t be blamed for scarring a damned prince.”
“Luna saved my life,” he said tightly, pushing down the sleeve of his uninjured arm. “And I would have told you I was unmarked if you’d asked.”
“Would you have told me the truth?”
“Yes,” he said. “But I’d have said it in Vhranian.”
All right, so I’d lied, too. But mine was a wee common lie. His was literally royal in magnitude.
I gripped the hemmed edge of his other sleeve and ripped it open, then tore off the strips above his shoulder, revealing firm, rigid muscle—and the gash across his upper arm.
