Page 91 of A Thief Among Fae

That necklace could’ve been that housecarl’s family heirloom or a treasured gift from a lover. She’ll miss it and will have to spend each day until death without it. Yet a draugr, even with its glowing eyes and animated limbs, isn’t really alive. “The dead aren’t affected by theft—they’re not even around to witness it.”

“I agree with you in one regard. When the living are stolen from, there is always a consequence. One Avedoran mark could be the difference between a hot meal and starvation.” He pockets the necklace, then looks at me again. “That’s why I had reservations about hiring this guild, but tomb raiding is an endeavor the adventurers’ guild would’ve turned down, even if they didn’t dismiss me at the door for being fae. And Finnian personally vouched for Erickson’s crew.”

I nod, hanging on every word as the painkiller starts to sap my consciousness.

“But Cynthia, never assume the dead can’t haunt this plane.” His eyes narrow with a warning. “They lurk in the shadows, more than anyone dares to believe. Robbing them still makes you a thief.”

“What do you—” My legs turn to lead, and I stumble, catching myself on the frame of my bed.

He lunges, grasping my arms to balance me. “Are you alright?”

“I feel like I’m about to pass out,” I admit, leaning into him as my eyelids grow even heavier.

Desmond reaches around me to pull back my quilt and sheets, then fluffs my pillow. “Get in.”

It dawns on me what’s happening, and I let out a tired laugh. “You’re not tucking me in.”

“Why not?” He arches one brow so perfectly I want to reach out and follow the curve with my thumb.

“You’re a prince!” I glare at him, but it’s tired and half-hearted.

He lifts me up, no warning or anything, just one arm under my thighs and the other bracing my shoulders. “And that’s a problem because. . ?”

He’s so warm. I melt into him, but only a little. “Then you can’t because you’re my boss.” It would be improper. Too intimate. As if I’m not already enjoying it.

The prince of the Hollowlands lays me down and pulls the sheets over me. “Hmm,” he muses, clearly unconvinced.

As he tucks them tight beneath the mattress, I try one last protest. “You’re. . . you’re you!” Someone too grumpy and engrossed in his book to talk to the woman he had just recruited. Someone who only joined a dance at Norwynhald to interrogate her.

For a moment, Desmond stills, lips parted like he’s holding back words he desperately wants to say. Then he swallows. “I still don’t see the issue, Cynthia. Unless you believe that the Prince of Death wouldn’t⁠—”

“No!” I know where his mind is going, and I have to stop it. Even if my eyes are fluttering closed, even if sleep pulls at me. “You’re not the Prince of Death.” I hold his gaze, although every blink becomes slower. “I’ve known you for two weeks, and you’ve only killed one person.”

A surprised snort of a laugh bursts out of him, and a smile dimples his cheeks. It falls as he averts his gaze. “That doesn’t atone for the hundreds I have killed. Nothing can.”

Several long seconds pass, and everything is dark. I ball my hands into fists, forcing my eyes open again. His callused hand is right before me, gently brushing my hair out of my face.

“War doesn’t define you,” I whisper. “But your love for your people does.”

I think I see him tense, like the words have such a profound effect on him that he feels them through every marrow of his body. But I might be imagining it, because my vision darkens with sleep again. “I found the knives you left for me. They’re beautiful,” I murmur.

One last time, I fight my drowsiness to look at him.

He’s lingering at my bedside, looking at me with such wonder and adoration in his eyes that I know I must be dreaming. He’s left the room already, and all I’m seeing is what I wish I could.

That’s what I tell myself as sleep finally takes me.

Chapter 27

Maeve arrives in my room the next morning with a hot bowl of pottage, a tonic to numb any residual pain, and a potion to help me heal. “You’re banned from physical training for four days,” she says.

I groan as I take the tonic and potion from her. “Bad news first thing in the morning?”

She tuts. “The quickest way you’ll recover is by doing nothing.”

Gods, that’s depressing.

“How’s Finnian?” I ask her.