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He silently apologized to Donia for what he was about to do, but the Summer Court would never be strong enough to survive the coming war if he didn’t force a change. I need my queen. My court needs this. For a faery king, he’d been patient since Aislinn had become queen. No more.
He looked at his queen. “Help me?”
She hadn’t moved away yet, but she had pulled her hands from him. “What do you need?”
He twisted to look at the injury and held his arm out from his body. “It needs to be cleaned, and—never mind.” He stepped away. “I can do it myself.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Aislinn scowled.
He hid his smile. “If you’re sure . . .”
“What do I clean it with?”
Keenan pointed toward a cabinet and winced. “There’s cleaning supplies on the top shelf.”
His queen opened the cabinet and stretched up, balancing on her toes.
“Can you reach them?” Keenan followed and used the excuse to put his hands on her waist. The pain of the toxins in his body was starting to make him feel weak, but he wasn’t yet at the point of exhaustion.
“Got it.” She pulled down the box of medicinal supplies and spun around so that she was facing him. “Why do you have these in here?”
“My mother used to take pleasure in injuring me every time I told her about the girl I thought could be my”—he touched her face with his hand, trapping her between him and the wall—“who could be you. I didn’t like the court to see my injuries.”
“Oh.” She took a steadying breath and then exhaled—against his bare skin.
He shivered at the feel of her breath, letting her see his reaction, showing her that he was far from immune to her, and then before she could ask him to move, he turned and walked away. Tease and retreat. He’d done this so many times that it was frightfully easy to slip into the role. I hate it. He pushed the distaste away. The court comes first. An unhappy regent was a weak regent; a weak regent created a weak court. We cannot be weak.
He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Is it easier if I stand or sit?”
“Your back is bruised too.” She walked up behind him and laid her hand flat between his shoulder blades. “Do we need a healer?”
“You can heal me,” he reminded her. He turned so they were face-to-face again. “After you clean the wounds, if you choose to, you could erase these injuries.”
“It’s not that easy.” She started to back away.
He caught her hand and held it against his skin. As his sunlight pulsed and drew out her light, he slid her hand toward his injured side. “All you need to do is touch me and let your sunlight make me stronger. I need you, Aislinn.”
“When I do . . . I would if it were life threatening, but . . .” She blushed and tugged her hand free of his. “You’re not being fair. You know what it feels like.”
“I do. It feels right.”
She opened the medical box and pulled out an antiseptic wipe. “Sit.”
He did so, and she leaned down and wiped the blood from his skin. She was careful as she cleaned the four gouges in his side. When she was done, she asked, “They look worse than they feel, right?”
“No,” he admitted. He put his right arm behind him to brace himself. “She’s War. Her touch is always worse than most faeries, and right now, she’s strong.”
Aislinn’s attempt at self-control faltered. Wind snapped through the room as her instinctual protectiveness flared to life.
“But you seemed fine in the study and”—she shook her head—“you were ignoring that, despite being in real pain, to explain to me. I thought we came in here because you were being . . .”
“Assertive?” he offered. “I was, but I didn’t want them to see me weakened, Aislinn. You know that they are already tentative. I’ll not show them anything that gives them doubts. My duty is to them. It has been so since I was born.”
Silently, she sat beside him and splayed one hand over the still-bleeding cuts. Pulses of sunlight slipped into his torn skin, burning the darkness of War’s poison from his body. He closed his eyes against both the pain and the pleasure. He wasn’t sure at first if Aislinn realized there were toxins inside him that she was destroying, but when he opened his eyes, she was staring at him. She’d felt the poisons, knew what he’d hidden: if she’d not helped him in time, he could’ve died.
“No different than the ice Donia poisoned you with, Aislinn.” He smiled at her. “Telling you wouldn’t have changed anything. You felt it. You’re fixing it.”
