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Heat hit my cheeks. He was right, but Iwastroubled by the truth in his words.
Prince Thorne lifted his brows. “You have nothing to say to that?”
I twisted the ribbon tightly around my finger. “No.”
He chuckled deeply. “I see you helped yourself to something that doesn’t belong to you.”
“What?” I frowned; then he glanced pointedly at the dagger resting on the nightstand, beside the sheath and harness Grady had found for me. “Are you going to take it?”
“Should I?”
“I don’t know. Aren’t you worried about me using it against you?”
“Not particularly,” he replied, and irritation flared. “That bothers you.”
“Yeah,” I admitted. “It’s kind of insulting.”
“It’s insulting that I don’t fear you trying to harm me?”
I thought that over. “Kind of.”
Prince Thorne laughed then, deep and smoky, and I decided I also found those kinds of laughs to be insulting due to how nice they were.
“Maybe if you did, you wouldn’t barge into my space unannounced or invited,” I reasoned.
“No, that probably wouldn’t stop me either.”
“Nice.”
“I do have a reason for being here.”
“Other than annoying me?” I countered.
“In addition to that.” His gaze dropped to my finger. I stopped messing with the ribbon as his eyes returned to mine. “I wanted to see how things went with your baron.”
I started to speak, somewhat relieved . . . and dismayed that he actually did have a reason to be here, but my gaze locked with his, and I suddenly wanted to ask if he ever thought of the young girl he’d found in the orphanage. I wanted to know if he had spoken to me like I believed he had, but Grady said was impossible. I wanted . . .
Clearing my throat, I looked away. “I did speak with him this morning. He was relieved that you were not here due to the King being displeased with him.”
“I never said the King wasn’t displeased with him.”
My head jerked back to him. An unsteady rush of breath left me. He was closer somehow; now less than a foot separated us. “What— ?”
Prince Thorne’s hand curled around my elbow, and before I knew what he was about, he lifted my right arm. The line of his jaw tightened. “You’re bruised.” The colors of his eyes had stopped moving, but his pupils had expanded. He carefully turned my hand over, exposing the inside of my wrist to the thin slice of sunlight. “I know I didn’t do this last night. Who did?”
I shook my head. “I didn’t even know it was bruised,” I lied, because there was absolutely no way I would speak the truth, not even to Grady. It was . . . it was just too embarrassing, and I knew it was wrong to feel that way, but it didn’t change how I felt. “I have no idea how that happened.”
“The bruises look like fingertips.” His voice was low, and a chill hit the air.
Tiny goose bumps appeared over my flesh as I glanced nervously around the chamber. “It must be an illusion.” I pulled at his hold.
Prince Thorne held on, sliding his long fingers over my wrist. They moved in slow, smooth circles. “Your skin is far too lovely to be bruised,” he remarked, some of the ice easing from his tone. “Tell me,na’laa,does your baron not treat hisfavorite. . . whatever you are well?”
“I . . .” I trailed off as he lifted my wrist to his mouth. He pressed his lips to the skin—lips that were hard and unyielding, and yet somehow soft as satin. My own parted as a strange tingling warmth spread across my wrist, easing . . . thenerasingthe ache there. I lifted my gaze to his as he lowered my hand to my lap. The bruises were gone. He’d done it again.
Maybe his kisses did heal?
His fingers glided up my arm. “Who bruised you?”
