Grim began visibly recoiling from her whenever she was near. He would position his chair at dinner as far from her as possible, as if it was a physical pain to be near her.
And that was how she knew for certain he had seen one of the memories. Her plan was working.
She only hoped that his behavior meant that he was fighting his desire for her...and not that he was disgusted by it.
While he pretended she didn’t exist, she noticed everything about him. So when he reached for his goblet of wine with his right hand, Isla sat up straighter. She knew even the smallest detail about her husband—like the fact that he always kept his dominant hand ready to grab his sword or wield his shadows, even in the middle of a meal.
She might have thought that the environment, with his own ancestor at the head of the table, would have put him at ease. But his posture was too rigid. His eyes, fixed on everyone in the room but her, remained alert.
“Is something wrong with your arm?” she asked quietly, while everyone else was locked in conversation about the preparations for the upcoming invasion of her planet.
Grim stiffened but otherwise did not acknowledge her question.
“I can—I can help you.”
He huffed cruelly. As if he thought she would help him right off a cliff. She couldn’t really blame him for that, after what he had seen.
The next night, the pain only seemed to have gotten worse. He nearly winced when his arm jostled and wasn’t using it at all. She wondered how long it would be until Cronan noticed.
When Cronan banished Isla from the galaxy room for the evening, it was Grim who escorted her to her cell.
When they were in the privacy of the dungeons, she turned and said, “Decided to take me up on my offer then?”
His glare was piercing. “What do I use?” he demanded.
As a Wildling, she had basic healing knowledge. But this was not her world—and there was little nature left. She wasn’t sure if she could actually help him, but she would try her best.
“What kind of injury is it?”
“A cut,” he said simply.
That was odd. “Doesn’t Cronan have healing supplies?” A cut was hardly something that had ever brought Grim pain before. Unless it was laced with poison, like with the dreks.
“Didn’t work.”
She should have guessed she would be the last resort. She was grateful he was even speaking to her. “Can’t you ask Cronan?”
Grim’s jaw locked. He didn’t answer.
“You don’t want him to know.” She tilted her head. “You’re...hiding something from him.”
He must have sensed her hope, because his eyes turned scathing. “Just because I’m not completely aligned with him, doesn’t mean I’m aligned withyou.” He spat the word, like the idea of them working together was disgusting. He looked at her and only saw his killer.
But she could see that he was becoming unmoored. By the memory? Was it making him hate her more...or less?
“Can I see it?”
Grim didn’t move. Right. He didn’t trust her either. How was she supposed to heal something she couldn’t examine?
Why would that even matter anyway? Unless...the injury itself was something important...
Wait. Had Grim given himself a skyre?
She frowned. He must have looked through her research when he was trying to get her back. He must have retraced her steps...
What if the skyre was slowly killing him? They were dangerous. It was easy to mess them up. If he was already in so much pain...
“Whatever it is you don’t want me to see, mask it.” She knew he could create illusions.
