That cold, woodsy scent with a hint of sweetnessunderneath…it’shis. The softness against my skin…his silk sheets. Because I’m in his bed. In his room.
Footsteps coming closer. And then, a careful touch—his hand pushing what seems to be a cold compress back into place on my forehead. The relief is instant. His hand lingers for a moment, carefully positioning the compress and adding to its soothing pressure.
Comforting me.
The Mouren King iscomfortingme while I lay in his room, handling me with the delicacy one might afford a fallen lover. Or maybe a bundle of thorns that someone’s dropped into his bed as a prank. I don’t know. For the moment, I’ve given up on trying to figure out what he’s truly thinking about me.
Myself, I want to recoil. But again, I can’t find the strength. So instead I close my eyes and let the moment happen, drifting back into that spinning storm of warmth, imagining arms wrapping around me, pressing the warmth deep into my body. My mother’s arms. My father’s. Malachi’s. Marta’s. Briar’s.
I try not to focus too much on the way Reave is touching me.
But it’s hard not to.
His hands are precise, occasionally moving the compress around, pressing it to the exact throbbing spots that need relief. Then his touch moves lower, tracing my scrapes and bruises. At one point, he draws his fingers away for a moment, only to bring them back covered in some sort of thick salve that tingles when he brushes it over my skin.
My voice cracks, and moving my dry lips is painful, but I finally manage to get words out. “I heard you ask a servant to send healers...”
“I did, yes.”
“You’re not a healer.”
“Not by trade. But it’s anotherpedestrianskill I’ve picked up over the years, alongside cooking.”
I open my eyes to find him methodically arranging several jars of different ointments, bandages, and other supplies on the bedside table. Slowly, I prop myself up so I can study it all.
I wonder if he’s developed some of these medicines himself, same as the recipes he’s developed in the kitchen. If maybe he’s picked this skill up for the same reason he picked up cooking: for the sake of his siblings. Whatever sickness ails them all, he seems determined to be the one to fix it—to fixeverything—however he can.
A strange, unwanted compassion creeps through me as I realize we have this in common as well; I know what it’s like to grasp for control this way, the desperation of wanting to do something,anythingto make a difference when it feels like you’re facing something insurmountable.
“The actual doctor came and went some time ago,” he informs me. “You had an entire conversation with him.”
I give him a blank stare.
“…You don’t remember any of it, do you?”
“I…no. I don’t.”
“So he was right to caution me not to move you, then. You were in terrible shape.”
Why do you care?I want to ask.
Then I remind myself of our arrangement—that he isn’t taking care of me because of any real feelings between us. I’m precious to him, but only because I’m valuable. Much like dragons hoard shiny things. Kings do the same.
Still, whatever medicines I’ve been given for the painmust be shaking up my thoughts, because I find myself unsatisfied with this explanation.
“Why did you bring me to yourroom, of all places?”
“Because you were hurt, and I panicked.”
“The vile, murderous King of Mouren panics?”
“Not where anyone can see him doing it.” He walks to a cabinet on the far side of the room, taking out a glass, a bottle, and pouring himself some sort of amber-colored drink. “Which is why we’re hiding in my room—because no one will disturb me here.”
“And he hides, too? Hm.”
“Only when he needs somewhere quiet to focus on plotting his next vile, murderous move.” He raises the glass to me before taking a sip, then saunters back to my side.
It hurts to move my head, but I still do, tracking his every movement as he approaches. “This isn’t some elaborate scheme to get me into your bed, is it?”
