Page 90 of A Thief Among Fae

“So it’s true?” I ask through gritted teeth. “The fae are militarized?”

There’s a moment of silence before he responds. “Yes.”

Earlier this autumn, I might’ve been perturbed. Now, I hope that the fae might one day be free. “Do you use glamour as a weapon?”

Another painful stab. I bury my grimace into his quilt and inhale the scent of cedar and sandalwood. Like his arms around me when we shared a room in Hawthorn Inn.

“Soldiers learn to win by any means necessary, Cynthia. That doesn’t mean I enjoy using it.”

I bite the quilt as the needle digs in again. Gods, when will the tonic kick in again? I try to focus on his free hand that’s splayed against the small of my back as he finishes the sutures, because being turned on is better than being in pain. It’s not working this time.

“It doesn’t fit you,” I murmur.

“What doesn’t?”

“Prince of Death. Why does Avedor call you that when you’re so. . .” I flounder for the right word because I have felt violence within him, but so infrequently that the appellation doesn’t make sense. “Rational,” I finally decide.

“We’re done.” The words are biting, dismissive. He moves off of me and heads to his armoire.

Of all the questions he could’ve refused to answer, that was the one he picked? I sit up, holding my bustier to my chest.

He unfolds a tunic and wordlessly offers it.

I put it on and leave the bustier bunched up in my hand. It has a higher neckline than what he often wears, concealing my chest as I stand before him. I suspect he chose it for that very reason.

“How do you feel?” he asks me.

“Alright.” My back feels tight from the sutures, but the stinging pain is already lessening. So is the dullness from my headache, but there’s a weightlessness to my body in its place.

“Be careful. The tonics were strong, and I wouldn’t want you to⁠—”

I take one step, and the world lurches. My stomach drops into my hips.

Desmond catches me, one hand cradling my head as he helps me into the chair. “Don’t make me carry you to bed again,” he says, unusually husky.

My gaze snaps to his. His eyes widen, as if just realizing how intimate that sounded, and he quickly lets go.

“I’m fine. Don’t you dare carry me.” That would be utterly humiliating. I try to stand again, but my legs wobble, my muscles too lax to cooperate. I sink back into the chair. Shit.

His jaw sets. He slides one hand underneath my thighs, braces the other against my ass beneath the wound, and lifts me onto my feet. “Let me walk you to your room, at least.”

“Fine,” I agree, only because it’s the best option between falling flat on my face and being carried off like a stolen bride. “But you’ll give Finnian the wrong idea if he sees.”

The joke must come out flat, because instead of laughing, he falls silent. We slowly progress down the hall, my steps growing flimsier. Desmond patiently waits as my numbing hands struggle to unlock the door with my key. He opens it for me. When I step inside, he doesn’t follow.

“Goodnight,” he says, reaching for my hand just long enough for his thumb to brush against the sensitive crescent on my wrist. The touch sends shivers across my skin, however brief it was.

As he turns away, I catch the door and blurt out, “It was a mistake.”

Desmond pauses. “Robbing the Snow-Shod’s?”

“Robbing anyone.” I swallow, letting the realization consume me. “I may be a tomb raider, but I’m not a thief. This life—” I dig the necklace out of my pocket and toss it to him. “I don’t want it.”

It feels like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders as Desmond catches it, dangling it before him. His head tilts, the warmth replaced by a discerning furrow of his brows. That scar on his chin catches the dim light of the oil lamps and shines silver.

“Try to send it back to the housecarl,” I plead.

He nods. “Did you find a difference in robbing the living versus the dead?”