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Which, of course, he did.
Lyrena and Gawayn fell back. Apparently, I could not be trusted to guard myself, but Arran was sufficient. I’d have it out with them later about that. I’d bested half of my own Goldstones in the training courtyard today. It was time for them to give me some damned space.
“You could stop giving me things to add to it,” Arran said. “You could start giving a shit—about anything other than fighting and fucking.”
“Just because fucking is always on your mind does not mean it is on mine,” I yelled over my shoulder.
It was a lie. I thought about fucking Arran day and night. I’d told him as much, after I’d killed the assassin and he declared he’d be my personal ghost.
But thinking clearly was not on the menu on that particular moment.
I was all fire and brimstone.
I threw open the doors to my suite of rooms before anyone could do it for me.
“Liar as well,” Arran murmured, low enough that I knew it was meant for my ears only. Too bad we had an audience.
“Add it to the list!” I yelled back, throwing a hand up into the air.
Charis nearly upended the tray of food she was carrying to the dining table. Carly ducked behind a curtain—as she’d taken to doing whenever Arran showed up. I didn’t see Cyara, she must be in the bedroom.
Good—I wanted a bath, and for once I wouldn’t mind letting her wait on me. My body was going to start aching soon. I’d let Arran land too many blows. I should have taken him down early, instead of letting that duel drag on.
But I’d been too damn busy appreciating the flashes of muscle I kept seeing beneath his billowing shirt.
My hand was raw from holding weapon after weapon for hours on hours today. Every blister screamed as my fingers closed around the handle to my bedroom. Maybe it was a night for Parys’ tea—
“Get out of the way!” Arran roared, shoving me sideways across the room.
My hip hit the bookcase hard, the impact of my considerable weight sending several volumes flying.
“Have you lost your mind?” I yelled, staggering back to my feet.
Cyara screamed, Arran leapt for the bed, his sword above his head. I knew what was coming next—the vicious sweep of death.
“What is it?” I scrambled forward, grabbing the edge of the bed to lever myself around, a knife already back in my aching hand.
Another attack. Another assassination attempt. Maybe this was as serious as Arran and Gawayn seemed to think. I clenched my muscles, ready to throw or stab or—
My knife dropped to the bed, lost among the bedsheets.
An unhinged laugh tumbled out of my mouth.
There in my bed, frozen in what must have been casual repose mere moments before, looking like he was about to piss himself, was Parys.
* * *
“He is my friend,” I repeated for the third time in as many minutes.
Arran was still brandishing his sword, though he’d retreated to the floor rather than standing on my bed with his dirty boots like the feral beast he was.
Parys’s tawny skin was nearly as white as mine. His dark curls, usually framing his handsome face, were raked back. He’d just raked them back, I corrected. Several times. In between raising his hands, palm up, in the most ridiculous gesture of submission I’d ever seen.
“I have no weapons,” Parys said, also for not the first time.
“You can do harm without weapons,” Arran said, glaring.
I rolled my eyes. “What is he going to do, tickle me with his wind?”
