“I’m not—” He paused, considering his words. “I don’t want to hurt her. Youknowme. Trust that I didn’t lie when I said I cared for her. I’m doing what I must. She shouldn’t be here, and it would be best if she went home. For me and her.”
“How do you know what’s best for her?”
“How do you?” Domhnall countered.
He was right. Ronan had no claim to her, nor a history to call upon. Not like Domhnall. Ronan knew only what she told him. What she said she wanted.
Wasn’t that all that mattered?
“Your work with her is impressive, but why are you bothering?”Domhnall’s voice echoed in the small room. The answer was so obvious to Ronan, he wondered how Domhnall didn’t see it.
It was because someone had bothered for him, once. When he was hurting, struggling to move forward, he was given the help he needed. Clía deserved the same.
She had traveled from her kingdom, thrown herself at the mercy of Kordislaen, and had been bruised and beaten for the chance to get Domhnall back. To save their betrothal.
The prince had a beautiful, smart, stubborn girl chasing him. And he’d thrown her aside and replaced her without a second glance. Domhnall didn’t deserve her.
And you do?
He shook the foolish thought out of his head.
“You’ve written her off, but I won’t.” Placing his blade in its sheath, he looked at his friend, seeing for the first time someone he didn’t know.
Domhnall narrowed his eyes, as if reading Ronan’s thoughts. “Don’t pretend to understand me. To understand this. I’m not the villain here.”
Ronan turned and walked out the door, his knees protesting every move. He heard the prince’s footsteps behind him.
“You’re in pain again.”
Domhnall’s words stopped him in his tracks.
“The slight limp. You struggled with your belt. The pain is bad today, and you’re making it worse with these extra lessons.”
Ronan turned to face him. “I don’t needyouto tell me aboutmybody.”
Domhnall raised his hands, desiring a truce. “You’re right.I’m sorry. But no matter what you think of me, no matter how angry you are, I care. I can wrap it, like we used to. It might help.”
The first time the pain had stopped Ronan from training at the palace, he was barely eleven. No one had known about the aches and sharp jolts that hid beneath his skin, but that day, Domhnall could tell something was wrong. Without Ronan saying a word, the prince asked the kitchens for boiling water. He dipped cloth in it, let it cool enough to be handleable but still warm to the touch, then wrapped it tightly around Ronan’s wrists. It didn’t stop the pain completely, but it eased it enough for him to hold a sword that day. And soon it became their pattern. Anytime a limb was causing Ronan trouble, they secured it and let the heat work. Domhnall never asked for an explanation. But one day, months later, Ronan told him. About the pain, and the day that it began.
Domhnall was the first person Ronan had let in. And now he had never felt further away from the prince.
“I’m fine,” Ronan said shortly, leaving his friend behind him and heading to the arena.
***
RONAN DIDN’T MAKE IT TO TRAINING. HE GOT AS FAR ASthe western gardens, halfway there, before he knew he wouldn’t be going any farther. He forced himself over to a pale stone bench, surrounded by thinning brown bushes that were broken up by the occasional colorful bloom. That was where Clía found him several minutes later.
“I never thought I’d see the dayyou’relate,” she said as she approached him, in full training gear. Ronan raised his head, and the superior smirk on her face softened. He hated to think how bad he must look to stop her from gloating.
“Maybe I wanted to train here today.” It was a pathetic excuse for a joke, but Clía seemed to understand the request behind it. He didn’t want to talk about why he was sitting on a cold bench in the middle of a dying garden.
She sat down next to him, pulling her leather breastplate over her head, the hem of her shirt lifting ever so slightly with the motion. He looked away, staring at the flowers next to him.
“What are those?” she asked, and he realized she had followed his gaze.
“Harebell.” He let a finger run over the purple petals. “These have bloomed a little longer than most.”
“They’re strong,” she said, looking up at him. “Did you ever want to work with plants? Be a farmer, like your father?”
