“I don’t have any right to ask it of you.”
“I don’t care.” I take another deep breath. “I still want todo this. Maybe I can’t heal the whole world, or bring peace, or whatever else, but if I could at least heal him…that would be a start, wouldn’t it?”
He studies me for several more seconds before giving the barest of nods, the motion still oddly vulnerable and uncertain for him. “It would,” he agrees.
His gaze holds mine. I again have the feeling that the walls we put up are cracking under the growing weight of me and him—ofus—little bits of stone chipping away until I can finally catch a glimpse of the actual man on the other side.
It’s the first time I’ve ever allowed myself to trulylookat him without being blinded by hatred and anger, and it’s both exhilarating and terrifying to see him through this clearer lens.
“I should probably go so you can get some sleep,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
“No you shouldn’t.” The reply is so quick, so certain—especially after seeing his more vulnerable side—that it freezes me in place and renders me speechless.
“Stay with me tonight,” he says.
Last time he told me to stay in here, it was a command. This time…this time it sounds more like a plea. A question wrapped in desire and need and a fragile, budding hope, and he’s looking at me as if nothing else that’s happened tonight matters, so long as I don’t crush that hope.
I manage to keep breathing, somehow. To speak in a somewhat steady voice. “Only if you promise to actually sleep,” I counter. “Because I am not facing the wrath of your sister if she finds out you didn’t.”
A corner of his lips quirks. “I’ll do my best.”
I look down at the clothes the servants brought earlier—ones more suited for a training session than resting—and try to keep my voice casual as I add, “You should have had actual sleeping attire brought up for me, if this was your master plan all along.”
“We’ll manage,” he says, picking up his own clean shirt and offering it to me.
He turns away at this point, gathering up the supplies he used to treat his wounds and putting them away with methodical, neat precision. He seems lost in thought, fully distracted, so I think nothing of sliding out of my other clothes and slipping into his looser, more comfortable shirt, which falls to the middle of my thighs and hangs more like a nightgown on me.
It somehow feels more intimate than if he’d stood there and stared at me while I stripped down naked—the way he moves so easily in my presence, as if I’m simply a part of this private space. A part of him.
As I fasten the last of the shirt’s buttons, he finishes what he’s doing and turns my way again, stopping short at the sight of me.
Heat floods me as I look down at myself. “What?”
“Nothing. I just like the way my clothes look on you, that’s all. They suit you.”
“Like the colors of the Mouren banner suit me?” I ask, brows lifting as I recall our conversation about the dress I wore to the Sun Harvest Feast.
He raises one shoulder and lets it drop, his smile unapologetic.
“And yet you aren’t claiming me, you say.”
“Politically speaking, I’m not. Not as my property, as decreed by any ancient laws or rituals sanctioned by any gods.” He steps closer, taking my hand again.
I let him draw me toward his chest, heart racing as his other hand curls under my chin, lifting my mouth and aligning it better with his.
“But my mind is not on politics at the moment.” His face tilts closer to mine. “Or on anything particularlygodly, for that matter.”
“Whatisit on, I wonder?” I tease, as though I couldn’t guess.
His smile turns crooked. “You need only ask, and I’ll likely tell you; apparently, I’m determined to spill all of my secrets to you before the night is over.”
“I have that effect on men, I’ve been told.”
“I don’t want to think about you affecting other men right now, thank you.”
“Jealous, even now, when you clearly have me in your hold?”
“Butdo I?” A pause, then: “Do I have you?”
