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“I’m well enough.” I press a hand against my breastplate. The ache is still there, protected beneath armor, but it’s dull and healing, thanks in no small part to Gracen’s ready vein.
Rarely do I wake with a tributary in my bed and never intentionally. But this morning, when Gracen allowed me it, as well as another round of her supple body beneath mine, I was sure I wanted this—her—forever.
That’s not something she wants, though. A truth that stung more than I expected it to when she admitted it upon questioning last night.
“This caster who supposedly saved me last night, is there any hint of her?”
“None. She and Jarek have disappeared without a trace.”
I curse. “Jarek was Abarrane’s second and loyal to Islor without fault. He would not part ways with her, and she would not abandon Zander.” I could never understand that bond, and my brother swears their relationship never crossed boundaries.
“Those two were nowhere to be seen. But whoever this caster was, you can assume she is tied closely to your brother. And if that is the case, then why she didn’t let you die is beyond me, but she has my thanks.”
I don’t even know how to play draughts.
Did I imagine it? No, I’m sure I didn’t.
There is only one person that could relate to.
But it couldn’t be …
Wendeline might know, but it would likely take cruelty to get the answer out of her, something I don’t have time or an appetite for after she healed me last night, again. I’ve seen her weary before, but never unconscious.
I fish out the gold coin from my pocket and drop it in his palm. “Whoever she is, she gave this to Bexley.”
His eyes widen. “Where would this come from?”
“Ulysede.” Maybe I should have told Kazimir about the letter and its contents sooner, but I’ve charged him with enough already. Adding secret cities and prophecy to his plate didn’t seem fair.
A knock sounds on the outer door.
“I’ll fill you in on our journey.” Which we must begin, caster or not within my city walls, if I have any hope of taking back Islor from our enemies. “Enter!”
Corrin sweeps in with a fussing baby in her arms. “Someone is hungry,” she announces, strolling past us, her chin held high. “I assume she is in there?” She pushes through my bedroom door without waiting.
“Please, feel free.” I wave my hand with embellishment.
Kazimir shakes his head. “A royal tributary with a baby. Only you.”
“May I come in?”
Gracen looks up from the baby in her arms, shock splayed across her face. She wears nothing but the bedsheet, pulled up above the mounds of her breasts. “Of course, you may. This is your chamber.” She surveys my polished armor as I approach. I haven’t worn it since the night of the tournament, but it’s like sliding on familiar old boots. Far more comfortable than Islor’s crown. “You are leaving now?”
“Yes. My soldiers are waiting for me.”
“I did not mean to sleep so late, but she is almost done and then I will vacate your rooms—”
“No.” She thinks I’m here to kick her out of my bed. “Stay if you wish. And I hope to see you back here upon my return, dressed the same.” Maybe she and her little family can move in next door, if I feel it is safe enough by then.
A blush crawls over Gracen’s face, making her smatter of freckles stand out more. “When do you think that will be?”
“I’m not sure yet. Once I deal with the east, I must head north to see what awaits us there.”
“So it could be awhile.” She looks crestfallen.
“I will be back as quickly as I can.” Sliding my finger under her chin, I lift her face to memorize it, dragging my thumb over her plump bottom lip.
I’ve known others of my kind who profess devotion to their tributaries. Even my brother kept the same mortal for almost ten years and then suffered from an odd melancholy when he released them from service. But I’ve never felt that bond they described.
Until now.
But if what Romeria claims is true and the blood curse will be no more, am I to lose this feeling, so soon after I’ve found it? Will whatever this is between Gracen and me become meaningless? Will she still feel the same way toward me? Just like this helpless infant relies on Gracen for her milk, an Islorian immortal king all but pleaded for her vein last night. She has seen firsthand the power she has over me, my weakness.
“Would you still feel the same way about me if I were not king?”
She meets my gaze. “Yes.”
Not a moment of hesitation. “What if I did not take your vein anymore?”
Her brow furrows with confusion. “Then whose would you take?”
I sense a spike in her pulse, and it thrills me. She’s jealous of the idea. “No one’s.”
