THE DALTAS’LIBRARY WAS EMPTY EXCEPT FOR ONE OTHERperson. Princess Clíodhna sat in front of the fire, hair falling in a curtain around her face as she glared at the book in her lap as if it had personally wronged her. Beside her, propped on a cushion and sound asleep, was the small beast Ronan had seen her with in Álainndore.
Ronan let the door shut behind him loudly, so the princess knew she was no longer alone. She jumped at the noise, closing her book.
“My apologies, your highness.” His voice was soft.
She brushed her hair back and gave him a smile. It was the same polite one he had seen in the courtyard. “Captain Ó Faoláin. A pleasure to see you again.”
He doubted that. “You as well, Princess.”
“Please, call me Clía. We’re all to be equals here, right?” She stood, and Ronan saw she had changed—this dress’s hem was intact. But the ripped fabric from her first dress was still secured around the wound on her arm.
“Have you gotten that treated yet?” he asked.
She looked down at her arm in surprise. “I, uh, I’m afraid I haven’t had the chance.”
“Stay here for one second.” He didn’t wait for her answer before hurrying back to his room.
When he returned, Clíodhna was sitting with her book open once more. She only looked up after he came to stand in front of her.
He shook the small bag in his hand. “Bandages. Supplies. We should clean up that cut before it festers.”
“Maybe I should visit the healer,” she said doubtfully.
“They would offer the same as I am, except I’m much closer.” He raised an eyebrow. “Unless you don’t think I’m capable? I can assure you, while my bedside manner may not be perfect, I’ve had plenty of practice at this.”
She blushed slightly. “I believe it. Thank you.” Her voice was quiet, barely audible over the crackling of the fire. She offered Ronan her arm, and he began to work.
It was a routine he was familiar with, no different from when he patched up fellow warriors after a long training session.
Except her skin was softer than any warrior’s he had sparred with before.
“This might sting,” he said, before gently cleaning the wound.
He felt the princess’s muscles tighten, but she didn’t make a noise. The dobhar-chú, however, noticed her slight flinch. For an animal so small, its glare felt threatening.
“He’s not going to bite me, is he?” It was half a joke.
Clíodhna laughed; the sound was light, almost musical. “Not unless you give him a reason to.”
He eyed the beast carefully as Murphy settled back onto his pillow. “Good to know.”
As he turned back to the wound, Ronan let himself ask the question he had been wondering since he first saw her here. “Caisleán Cósta hasn’t seen an Álainndoran royal in generations. What made you want to train here? I’m sure this isn’t your idea of fun.”
She froze, and he wondered what he’d said wrong. “I know everyone thinks our conception of being royal is all feasts and celebrations,” she said. “But my family is aware of the war that’s brewing. And it’s my duty to my people to better myself so I can properly lead them in times of crisis.”
“How many times did you practice that?” he asked, not unkindly.
Her smile was iron sharp. “Not everyone has the luxury of not having their every word analyzed, their inflection and diction discussed at dinner right in front of their face.”
Ronan knew the intricacies of court politics—he had witnessed Domhnall navigate them all firsthand. And he knew hehad no taste for them. He shrugged. “You don’t need to watch your words with me. I promise you, I have no use for gossip and am in no place to judge. So, tell me, what’s the real reason you’re here?”
“I guess you could say I have something to prove.”
That, he understood.
“You’ll find that’s something we both have in common.” He smiled as he secured a fresh bandage.
She examined his work. “You’re good at this. Have you considered being a healer?”
