“Oh.” The lump in Araya’s throat tightened. She swallowed hard, the bitterness of that hurt still clinging to her. “It was… I’m fine.” She frowned as Jaxon turned away, rummaging through the cabinets until he pulled out the kettle.
“What are you doing?”
Jaxon glanced over his shoulder, that familiar smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’m making the tea, Starling,” he said, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “It’s the least I can do after pushing you so hard earlier. I shouldn’t have taken so much.”
Surprise flickered through her exhaustion. “You don’t have to?—”
“I do.” His tone brooked no argument. He moved with steady efficiency, pulling jars from the cabinet. “I was angry, and I took too much from you—that’s inexcusable. The least I can do is make you the tea that will help. What did Serafina say to put in it?”
Araya bit her lip, twisting her hands in her lap. First he drained her magic without flinching—and now he was making tea?
“Chamomile, nettle, and a pinch of dried valerian root,” she murmured.
Jaxon nodded, measuring each herb with practiced precision. The earthy scent of chamomile and valerian filled the kitchen as the water boiled, its soothing aroma curling around her, loosening the knot of tension in her chest.
Jaxon pulled the kettle off the heat just as it started to whistle, the high-pitched sound fading into silence. He poured the steaming tea through a strainer into a delicate mug, every movement careful and deliberate.
Finally, he crossed the kitchen. He leaned in, his arms bracketing her as he set the mug down, the warmth of his chest pressing lightly against her back. Araya automatically wrapped her hands around the steaming mug, letting the comforting warmth sink into her palms.
“You hurt me,” she whispered, her voice barely more than abreath. The words slipped out before she could stop them. Her fingers tightened around the mug. “I wasn’t trying to defy you, Jaxon. I was frightened.”
“I know, Starling,” Jaxon’s hands found her shoulders again. His thumbs moved in slow, practiced strokes, kneading at the tension there. His voice was just as soothing, smoothing over the jagged edges of her fear. “I didn’t consider what it would be like for you—and then I reacted badly. I’m sorry.”
Araya shivered as Jaxon’s thumbs traced slow, practiced lines over her shoulders, her wariness flickering under his comforting, familiar touch. She took a sip of the tea, its warmth spreading through her chest like a lazy tide as the bitter herbs settled her stomach.
“It’s just this project,” Jaxon sighed. “There’s so much riding on it. I need to succeed—for us.”
“You will.” Araya leaned into him, lulled by the comfort he gave so easily. “I know you will.”
“I will,” Jaxon echoed, his fingers slipping into her hair, gently unpicking her braid. The strands tumbled loose over her shoulders, his touch slow and deliberate. “Because I have you. You’re the solution right under the Arcanum’s nose, Starling.”
The words needled at the edges of her mind, a whisper of warning struggling against the comforting fog. But the tea’s warmth tugged her down, dragging her deeper into the haze. She was too tired to hold onto the thought.
Didn’t want to.
“Come on,” Jaxon murmured, guiding her to her feet with steady hands. His palm rested against her lower back, grounding her as he led her toward the bed.
Araya didn’t resist as he tucked her in. The bed’s softness cradled her, and Jaxon curled behind her, his warmth wrapping around her like a shield.
“You’re safe,” he whispered, his lips brushing her temple. “You’re always safe with me, Starling.”
Her breathing slowed, her body melting into the mattress as her willingness to resist melted away, smothered by warmth and exhaustion. She succumbed to the pull of sleep, letting that dark tide pull her under.
She did not dream.
Chapter
Twelve
Time meant nothing.
Guards came at odd intervals, shoving cold meals through the slot in the iron door. It could have been days or weeks since Jaxon had broughtherhere. Every time Loren closed his eyes, he found himself desperately hoping to find her waiting for him.
She hadn’t come.
Loren told himself he was relieved. Better for her—safer—if he never saw her again.
The bond still tugged at him. Raw, insistent—he hated it. Hated how it put her in danger. What if Jaxon knew? What if he had hurt her? The strangled squeal she’d made when the human mage shoved his hand into the neck of her dress haunted Loren’s nightmares.
