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She holds me until I have run out of tears and am worn out. Lawrence thrusts a handkerchief toward me, looking away. There is not a single stitch of color on it. The embroidery is unembellished along the edges, with a simple ‘H’ in one corner.
I bite my lip to keep from blubbering over the gesture and use it to wipe away the dampness on my face, offering it back with another sniffle when I’m done. He gives me a flat look, holding up a hand to refuse.
Della refills the empty cup from a pitcher on the far end of the night table. She wraps my hands around it, then I sip on the cool water. She once again takes charge, telling me what happened. Though she is careful not to mention the fighting or any fatalities, I don’t yet know about, only recounting how worried they were for me and their relief when I woke. The three men all nod and interject a few mumbled words here and there.
I twist and untwist the square cloth around my fingers. Guilt gnawing at my insides. My tears have dampened the mood and brought an awkward air to the room. But everyone has stayed, comforting me, and offering their love and support. Letting me know I am not alone in my sorrow. The conversation dwindles until a weighted silence settles over the room.
Alaric clears his throat. “We should let her rest… and I would like a moment to speak with Clara, alone,” he says, then he turns to me. “If that’s all right with you?”
I nod. Though there is probably more for us to discuss than could fit in a week, let alone a moment.
Oliver comes over and smooths a hand over my hair, kissing my cheek. He glances behind me, then straightens and backs away. Lawrence snorts, and I send a sideways glance back at Alaric. His face is a little too carefully set into a neutral mask.
Della suppresses a smile and shakes her head. When her attention returns to me, she pats my shoulder, dark eyes moving back and forth, scanning my face before she slides from the bed.
I get the sense she almost doesn’t believe I am fine. Which leaves me wondering how much worse things were than they are letting on.
“I’m sorry I made things uncomfortable.” I speak to her, but the apology is for everyone.
“Crying is not a weakness, it is a virtue to bear your heart openly, exposing your vulnerabilities, and only those do are capable of putting themselves back together, stronger than before,” she says.
Oliver continues to inch away until his arm brushes Della’s, only to be forced to the side when Lawrence moves to stand between them.
“It is not something you ever need to apologize for,” Della says, ignoring the men and their odd behavior. “You must be hungry. I’ll have food brought up.”
Then Lawrence takes her by the arm, and the two of them take their leave, with Oliver not far behind.
“That includes you three,” Alaric says to the three demons, burrowed under the covers. He gives them a stern expression when they hesitate, and after a brief standoff, they obey. Even Varin, much to my surprise. I expected them to refuse out of pure stubbornness.
When bat, snake, and rabbit pass through the wall in puffs of smoke, Alaric turns his deep blue gaze on me. My pulse speeds up, a wild staccato in my veins. After everything, he can still change the beat of my heart with a single glance or word.
“Your… curse?” It’s hardly a graceful way to ask, but I have to know for sure if he is all right or if we are still racing against the clock.
Alaric’s spine stiffens minutely. A deep agony shadows his eyes. His throat bobs. “Broken.”
I continue to twist the handkerchief around my fingers and quickly change the subject. “Where are we?”
“Nightwich.” He nods in the general direction of the door as he brings the chair from the writing desk in the corner to sit beside the bed. “This is one of the spare rooms intended for distinguished guests.”
He lays a hand over mine, lingering for a few heartbeats, before taking the handkerchief from me and setting it aside. It’s hard to tell if he finds my fidgeting distracting or thinks I don’t know what to do with it.
Accustomed to how we used to be around each other, this feels… strangely formal. I smooth the coverlet over my legs, giving myself something to do with my hands. He must read the uncertainty on my face.
“Do not look so worried, little nightmare.” He leans forward, resting his elbow on his knees. “You just woke up and I didn’t want you to feel overwhelmed.”
Tension seeps from my shoulders. I can’t fight the gravity he possesses. It tugs like a siren’s song, angling my body toward his. He’s half an arm’s length away, close enough for me to catch the lingering scent of soap and musk with every inhale.
Alaric leans over and adjusts my pillows, then retakes his seat. But from the set of his jaw, it is clear the reason he gave for sending everyone out of the room is not the whole of it.
I swallow thickly. “How long have I been asleep?”
“Two days.” He fidgets, nervous about something. Then he stands and walks over to the padded bench at the foot of the bed, picking up a box I couldn’t see from where I sit. It’s a black stained wooden box with decorative silver caps on the corners, and thorny vines and roses embossed on the sides.
I’m not sure I can handle any more bad news just yet. So, I settle on a topic that centers on him instead. “What is it like, being a king?”
“There’s—” he starts at the same time. Stops. Blinks a few times. “I actually wanted to talk with you about that.”
I frown.
