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“She is rather difficult to forget,” he said.
“Harol patched her up, and she’s currently bossing around the medics. She’s right as rain,” Sarah replied.
He liked that expression. It evoked a refreshing sensation.
Vekele presented Baris with a clean shirt. “You’re not in danger of immediate death.”
“How reassuring for you.” Baris accepted the shirt. As tedious of a process as it was, he managed to put on the shirt with one immobilized arm and worked the buttons with one hand. Vekele watched the painfully slow process, his head tilted and said nothing. To struggle with such a common task was insulting to his dignity, but he was too stubborn and proud to ask for assistance. Vekele understood. They shared the same stubborn disposition.
“Rest,” Vekele said. “Drink the tea. I will pour it down your throat if I must.”
“Yes, yes.”
“I will send Harol to you for a more thorough exam. There may be metal fragments in the wound. I cannot tell.”
“The medics should tend to the others first,” Baris said. “I will wait.”
The two brothers stared at each other, arriving at an unspoken understanding. Both were stubborn. Baris would refuse medical care for himself, and Vekele would force it upon him.
“My mate, I need a moment to speak with Baris,” Vekele said.
Sarah made her farewells and left, Ghost trailing after her.
Vekele waited until the cabin door closed before placing a hand on his uninjured shoulder. His expression softened. “I am concerned. This is not like you,” Vekele said. “Is it the symbiote dying or something more?”
Yes, and more. The crushing loneliness. The constant ache in his head making it difficult to concentrate. The random appearance of fevers. The exhaustion and the inability to sleep. The need to maintain appearances and never let weakness show. He had to carry on. There was no alternative.
“I will consider your words,” Baris said.
Vekele pressed his lips together. He heard how Baris made no promises to act less rashly but did not call him out. Not yet. “That will have to do.”
Harol arrived shortly after. He declared the wound insignificant and forced another bitter mug of moon root tea on Baris.
Once alone, Baris paced the length of his cabin. His mind would not quiet. He wanted what his brother had. He wanted a mate who was a true partner and a friend. Whoever the council selected, she would not be that, and that knowledge pained him. From the time of his parents’ death, his life had been in service to the crown. When had he ever made a choice because it was best for Baris?
Never.
Every choice, every decision, was to obtain peace and stability for the kingdom. While he wished for a gentle universe, it was not. The universe was brutal and bloody. At times, he was forced to be equally brutal in return. He did not enjoy it. If Vekele thought he was rash because his mask of wit and civility dropped, his brother was mistaken. Baris was tired.
He was the king. Always.
Only occasionally did he have the luxury to be Baris Shadowmark.
He knew what—who he wanted.
Vekele would say he was being impetuous and rash, but Vekele was wrong. His choices were deliberate. Measured. Still, the hour was late. His eyes grew heavy. He needed to consider his words carefully for the conversation he wished to have. He slept, and when he woke, he remained determined in his objective.
Baris typed out a message to Des, requesting Lenore’s presence. His finger hovered over the screen. Such a request was against standard protocol. Eyebrows would be raised. Surely, the king was far too busy to pay a personal visit. He had staff. Yet he wanted to speak with Lenore directly, not through a screen or through a messenger.
He pressed the screen.
Vekele would disapprove. He was about to do something reckless.
LENORE
She needed to find a job.
The thought hounded her as she drifted off to sleep and waited for her when she woke. The response to the portal collapse kept her busy for hours. She treated a concussion, a fractured arm, and various scrapes, cuts, and bruises. Busy hands meant her mind was too occupied for worries.
