Page 159 of She Who Holds My Wrath

One of the healers clears her throat. “Your airway was compressed. There’s bruising that may worsen over the next day or two.”

Cassyr’s head snaps towards her. “Worsen how?”

I sigh. “Cass⁠—“

“You don’t get to interrupt,” he says without turning around. “Not right now.”

I tut at him as the healer finishes applying a cooling salve along my throat, the touch gentle and attentive. It stings faintly, a dull reminder of fingers crushing my windpipe, of the world narrowing to spots of light and roaring blood.

I swallow carefully. It hurts. It’s not unbearable, but it’s enough to remind me that I’m mortal, and got strangled by a seven-foot fucking demon.

Eventually, they step back, satisfied. The healer holds a small sack of vials and a list of instructions I half listen to. Rest. Drink this every six hours. Don’t strain your voice. No working.

Cassyr takes the vials from the girl before I can, tying the sack carefully around his belt. “I’ll make sure he follows all the instructions and takes the medication,” he says.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” I mutter.

Cassyr finally turns to me then, his eyes sharp. “You do today.”

The healers leave, murmuring blessings and warnings as they go. The room falls quiet, save for the distant echo of boots and voices in the corridor.

I swing my legs off the cot. “Right. That’s that, then. You can go.”

Cassyr doesn’t move.

“Cass.”

Still nothing.

I stand, a little slower than usual. The room tilts just enough that I have to brace myself on the cot. Cassyr’s there instantly, hand gripping my arm.

“Sit,” he orders.

I glare up at him. “I said I’m fine.”

He scowls. “And I said sit.”

Something in his voice, the way it’s tight, almost rough, makes me comply. He releases me once I’m steady, then drags a chair closer and drops into it, planting himself directly in front of me like a sentry.

“You’re not leaving, are you?” I say flatly.

It’s not a question. It’s a statement of fact. I can see it in his amber eyes, the way he watches me. Watches every single move, every wince in pain.

“No,” is all he replies.

“I don’t need⁠—”

“I watched you almost die,” he snaps. The words come out sharper than he probably intended them to. He exhales, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I’m not leaving you alone. Not tonight.”

There’s a thousand things I could say to that. But I say none of them.

Cassyr stays.

Not just that night, but the next day. And the one after that.

He insisted on walking me back to my rooms. He makes sure I drink every tonic at the exact hour like an overbearing mother hen. He applies salves to my throat and shoulders with careful fingers, his touch precise and lingering just a second longer than necessary.

I notice everything, which is a blessing and a curse.