“Hold these,” I said, and dropped the linen strips into his lap. Then I directed my gaze to the jar of sweetwine Savaadh had given him. I picked it up and pulled out the cork.
“Is this a time for drinking?” he asked.
“No,” I said, and took a drink anyway, and let the burn wash away some of my dizziness. “The Zephyrii really have a good hand with wine.”
When I moved back toward him, jar in hand, his brow lifted. “What are you going to do with that?”
“You were a soldier. You know what I’m going to do with it.”
A spark of temper lit in his eyes, and that actually banked my anger a bit. He cursed, then held out his hand. “At least let me have a drink first.”
I passed it over. He took a long drink, gave it back, thenwiped his mouth. “Do it fast. And don’t use too much. Only the gods know when I’ll be able to get more.”
“Get ready,” I said, and when he gripped the edge of the bench, I poured a thin stream of wine across his arm to wash out the wound.
His eyes were closed, jaw tight, and he looked a little paler than he had. But he didn’t flinch. Maybe he wasn’t so far off from being a soldier.
“Well done, Your Highness,” I said. I resealed it and put it on the floor. “Do you have any more fancy handkerchiefs?”
“No. I gave my last one to you.” He lifted his gaze to me, his eyes brilliant and questioning. “Did you keep it?”
“Sold it in the market for three copper coins. Not much, but better than nothing.”
A lie. It was in my room beneath my mattress. At least until I tossed it into the kitchen fire tonight.
I used the last of the linen strips from his shirt to clean the wound, then looked down at my tunic. Being a servant meant wearing hand-me-downs; my tunic had belonged to someone else, and that someone else had been wider and taller. I’d folded up the overlong hem and sewn a line of stitches to keep it there. Fortunately, I was a crap seamstress, so I stuck a finger between the wide and mostly uneven stitches and ripped so the extra fabric unfurled. Then I found the side seam, ripped a finger’s length from that, and pulled away a long panel of fabric. It was dustier than it had been a few hours ago, but it was mostly clean.
“Genius,” I murmured, then sat beside him on the bench. He didn’t offer to remove his shirt and I didn’t ask; it took every bit of willpower I had not to think about the wetness beneath my fingers—or the strength in the muscle beneath.
“You’ve ruined your tunic.”
“For my benefit,” I said. “If I cover the blood, I don’t have to look at it.”
He winced when I tucked in the ends of the fabric strip, but stayed still.
“That will do until you get to the palace. You should see the healer when you arrive.”
“Sanj,” he offered, wincing as he rolled his shoulder. “His name is Sanj.”
“Right, Sanj.”
“I will. Thank you, Fox.”
“You’re welcome, Your Highness.”
Neither of us had a thing to say about that.
He fell asleep, arms crossed and head tilted back against the carriage wall. It was clear he hadn’t meant to. Each time he began to nod off he’d shake himself awake, resettle himself. But sleep claimed him anyway.
He slept like a soldier. His face was a little softer in sleep, but his body never fully relaxed, as if he might need to grab up his sword against a looming enemy. He was just as beautiful, from the hard line of his jaw to the curve of his lips. A mouth that was much too kissable.
I placed the coat over him, then moved to sit as far away as I could manage (which, considering the circumstances, wasn’t very). But any distance would do, because instinct told me to sit beside him and push the lock of hair that fell over his eyes behind his ear.
He was a prince. I was a thief and servant. He had wealth and power and, for all that, was literally fighting for his life. One of his adversaries had just gained an army. I had no family,no protections. Nothing good would come from entangling myself with a prince and his royal baggage. Even if a tiny, secret part of me wished it might be otherwise.
There were no more bandits, only the glow of the sunset and torches when we arrived at the stronghold. Yue directed the carriage through the gatehouse, then passed through the western market to the road that circled the palace, where we came to a stop. It was just past curfew, and the stronghold was quiet, the streets mostly absent of people.
The prince pulled a small black pouch from his coat pocket and extended it. The fabric was shiny and stitched, of course, with silver tigers. “The Lady has been paid. This is for you and Wren.”
