She shook her head. “I saw nothing amiss.”
“Not even powdery residue? The culprit would’ve had to crush the purple crystal to coat the needles.”
She pressed her lips together, brow furrowed. “Not if they diluted the powder with water and dipped the needles into it.”
He didn’t know what to say. She touched her fingertips to her temple—a weary gesture—then turned back to the garden beds. The strain in her shoulders, the shadow around her eyes as she studied the innocent-looking herbs: unmistakable.
A protective impulse rose in his chest. He couldn’t lift the suspicion from her mind, but he could offer a way through it. He couldn’t stand here, watching her shoulder this alone.
“Why don’t we test them?”
She turned to look at him over her shoulder. “Testthe needles?”
He nodded.
“How?”
“Use them on me.”
For the first time, she scowled at him. An endearing frown. He had the rousing urge to smooth the furrow from her brow. Or pinch her nose, see if that’d make her laugh. Take away some of her worries.
She turned fully and leaned in, eyes narrowed. “Are youdaft, my lord?”
“Possibly,” he admitted. “But also, practical.”
She stared at him like he’d grown a second head. Laughter tickled his throat. If the situation wasn’t so dire, he would’ve chuckled.
“If you’re going to use them again—and I know you need to—test them on me. Not on Annett, who’s pregnant. Not on Daan, who’s barely recovered. Not on the children or the elderly.”
She crossed her arms. “What use is there in making you ill when we’re on the verge of the Harvest Ritual?”
He tilted his head. “Are you not the least bit curious what your needle therapy might do to a male of irritable temperament?” A beat. “I knowIam.”
“And if you get sick?”
“How fortunate I am to have an excellent healer under my roof.”
She said nothing. Her quiet was a victory. He had cut through her fear with a truth she couldn’t refute: he trusted her skill more than he feared the poison.
He nearly smiled.
“Come,” he said, tilting his head toward the castle. “Bring your medicine chest to my room.”
He wasn’t accustomed to inviting anyone into his bedchamber—least of all to bare himself, lie still, and bestudded like a pincushion. Yet here he was, unlacing his tunic while she arranged instruments on the low table by the hearth.
He pulled off his shirt. His boots scraped the stone floor as he sat to remove them. He stood, bare from the waist up. The fire had been stoked; warmth pulsed from the hearth. Still, gooseflesh rose on his arms.
“I can lie down now, if you’re ready,” he offered.
She turned to face him, her gaze catching at the line of his chest before lifting to meet his eyes. Not shy, or hungry. Just assessing, like he was another body to treat. Another wound to mend or fever to break. Perhaps he should balk at her indifference, but it intrigued him more than pricked his pride that she should look at him so carefully with those obsidian eyes.
“Lie on your stomach,” she instructed. “I’ll begin with the back.”
He hesitated just long enough to feel the Alpha’s primal dislike of lying face-down, back exposed. Unguarded. Vulnerable in a way no Alpha was meant to be.
Still, he climbed onto the mattress and positioned himself as she asked, resting his head on his forearms. The sheets were cool against his cheek, the scent of clean linen and smoke mingling with her scent: herbs and salt, and her own uniqueness. He heard the soft clink of polished metal tools being lifted, the rustle of a pouch.
“Try to breathe evenly,” she said.
