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She knew she wasn’t up to pretending to be Serene right now, so she didn’t push that. But she did hold his gaze as she said, “You need to be there. Serene needs all of you.” Bennick’s mouth opened, but she overrode him. “It will ease my mind to know you’re with her. Please, Bennick.”
He didn’t look pleased, but he nodded.
Clare pulled in a deliberate breath. “I would also like a moment to change, and I think you should do the same.”
Bennick hesitated.
Wilf rumbled, “I’ll stay at her door.”
Bennick finally gave in with a sigh. “All right.” He reached out and squeezed Clare’s hand. “I’ll return soon,” he promised. Then he was gone, leaving the princess’s suite for his own room, which was located down the hall.
Clare missed him instantly.
Wilf rubbed the back of his neck. “Is there anything I can do?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. But thank you.”
He hesitated, then pulled her into his arms for a tight embrace. “You’ve been landed far too many blows, my little defender,” he whispered roughly. “Don’t ever feel like you need to weather them on your own. You’ve still got a family. You have all of us.”
His words hit deeply, because she knew he spoke from personal experience. She squeezed him as tightly as she could. “Thank you, Wilf.”
In response, he kissed the top of her head.
Chapter 4
Desfan
“Irefusetocancelthe coronation," Desfan said.
From across the desk, Karim—his bodyguard and best friend—glared at him. “I’m not asking you to cancel it. I’m asking you to delay it until we can clear the palace of any possible lingering threats.”
Desfan scrubbed the heel of one hand against his aching brow. He hadn’t slept all night, and now that morning light beamed through the only window in his office, he was feeling the loss of sleep acutely.
He wasn’t about to change his mind, though. “You’ve helped Arcas oversee the search,” he said. “There haven’t been any recovered prisoners since midnight, and no other insurgents have been found.”
“They could still be hiding somewhere.” Karim’s thick arms were crossed over a broad chest, and his mouth was tight. He wasn’t happy.
Desfan didn’t blame him. He wasn’t happy, either.
Last night, Amil—a fates-blasted traitor, as it turned out—had helped wreak incredible havoc during the banquet. Instead of celebrating the coming coronation, his court had been under attack. Lives had been lost; he still didn’t have the final count. Princess Imara had been stabbed. Her blood was still trapped in the grooves of his fingernails, even after scrubbing his hands in a wash basin. His heart clenched, remembering the panic and fear that had choked him as he’d carried her from the room. They’d hidden in the kitchen pantry, of all places, and he’d held her and prayed to the fates that she would be all right. The wound had been deep, and he’d treated her the best he could, and he’d kept her awake and talking.
He'dkissedher.
His chest tightened, and he had to shove the memory of her soft lips aside. He was betrothed to marry her cousin, for fates’ sake. He had no right to kiss Imara.
He’d done it anyway. And pushing aside his guilt was nearly impossible, because he couldn’t stop reliving that moment. It had been far too brief, but that stolen kiss was branded on his soul.
It was the last thing he should be focused on right now, all things considered.
He’d spent the night walking among his wounded soldiers, praising them for their bravery. He’d also visited with nobles injured during the feast. He’d tried to comfort them, and he’d mourned with them for the loved ones they’d lost. He’d reassured those who were unscathed, but frightened. And every hour, he’d stepped into Imara’s suite to check on her.
Once the physician had given her medication that kept her blissfully asleep, she hadn’t stirred. But her maid, Hanna, was constantly at her side, and so was Princess Serene. The blade had torn through flesh and muscle before hitting the bone above her knee. The physician was quite confident her life had been saved, though infection could still set in. They wouldn’t know the full extent of the damage—or the permanency of it—until Imara was well enough to attempt walking.
If he thought too long and hard about her condition, Desfan lost sight of all else. And he couldn’t afford to lose sight of anything right now. He was about to become the serjan of Mortise. Duty, tradition, sacrifice for his people . . . that was his future. That was what he must embody.
Which was why the coronation could not be postponed.
Karim still glared at him. He wore the clothes he’d worn last night—as Desfan did—and he didn’t seem to notice the wrinkles or the dried blood. He was so agitated, he hadn’t even taken a seat for this meeting, despite the thick bandage on his thigh. He’d been hit by a crossbow bolt.
