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Her breathing thinned.
His own lungs suddenly felt too tight as he waited for her to say something. Anything.
Her lips pursed. “You’re a good friend, Desfan.”
Fates. Her words seemed to draw a line in the sand, but the way she said his name . . .
He was far too tired to have this conversation. He didn’t even know how hewantedthis conversation to go, so why did he feel a cut of disappointment that she’d merely called him afriend?
He was betrothed to Serene Demoi, not Imara Buhari. He had a duty to fulfill. An alliance to secure. He should not be looking at Imara’s lips, wishing he could kiss them again.
He needed to stop looking.Now.
He shifted in the chair. “Considering you saved my life, I owed you the best possible care.”
“I would tell you I won’t let you forget it,” Imara said, “but you keep bringing it up, so I can’t very well be the one to remind you.”
“I will never forget.” The taste of fear had been sharp on his tongue, had knotted his insides when he saw that knife plunge into her leg. The bleeding alone could have been fatal, but just knowing the agony she’d endured—was still suffering—pierced him deeply. She’d come back to help him. She had refused to leave him behind, and she’d paid dearly for that choice.
Imara reached out and touched the back of his hand. “You have enough to worry about, Desfan. Don’t torture yourself over this.”
Her skin was soft. Warm. Darker than his, and completely mesmerizing. He stared at their hands, watching as her fingers slipped away.
He nearly gave into the urge to snatch them back.
“I’ll be fine, you know,” Imara said, settling back against the pillows. “Although I don’t think I’ll make it to your coronation.”
“Of course not. You’re not leaving this bed until the physician allows.”
She pulled a face. “Regardless of how quickly I heal, he says I’ll need a cane—for a while at least.” She gave a half-smile. “Yahri and I will start a new fashion. Canes will be all the rage in your court, just you wait.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. You’ll be the serjan—I’m sure you can have one, too.”
A laugh burst out of him, but he shook his head. “I don’t think I’ll be able to afford one.”
Her smile dimmed. “Is it so bad?”
“It’s quite bad,” he admitted. “But they didn’t get everything.” The coffers had never been so empty, though. If debts were called in, they would be in trouble. And with war on the horizon, he had expenses to consider. Soldiers required coin—an army required a great deal more.
Imara lifted a single shoulder. “I suppose that means no solid gold cane for you. You might also want to skip the jewels and keep it plain.”
“That hardly seems like something fit for a serjan.”
She chuckled. “Just find a Zennorian artisan to decorate the cane with khalmin. You can pick any color of ink you want, and the designs are breathtaking.”
He enjoyed seeing her joy as she teased him. “Do you have any color recommendations?” he asked.
“Well, colors have meaning. You want to pick the perfect one.” She tilted her head, studying him intently. “Blue.”
“Blue?”
“Yes.”
“That doesn’t seem a very powerful color.”
“Red means power, but it’s also linked to violence and aggression. That’s not you. Blue, though . . . Calm. Steady. Fair. Strong.” She nodded once. “Blue suits you.”
