The guard grabs my arm, pulling me back.
“Get her the fuck out of here. Now!” Micah’s booming voice sends the guard into action.
I’m guided away as I fight against the tight grip the guard has on me. The need to run back doesn’t die down until we enter the sanctuary. The holy place is quiet, other than the occasional sniffle from the members of the court huddled in the far corner. The cowards know that it doesn’t matter what kingdom one comes from, if the shifters harm the building or the people inside, they will lose favor with the Statera. But that doesn’t mean that the Allaji won’t force their way in and pull the Stigians out one by one.
My attention turns to Kyron. His good arm is draped over Lance’s shoulder, using his guard’s bulky frame to keep him upright. The shuffling of his feet tells me his body is on the brink of giving out on him.
Lance leads us down the dark corridors, the same ones my father and I took when we escaped this place months ago. He stops in the middle of the walkway and presses a small button hidden behind a sconce on the wall. A thick panel slides open to a small furnished room, and he helps Kyron to the bed.
“Thank you, Lance,” the prince mutters.
“It’s my privilege and duty, Your Grace,” the warrior replies. “It looks as if the bleeding is slowing. I will send a medic to you shortly.”
“Don’t worry about me. Go and defend our people.” Kyron falls against the mattress, clutching a bloody rag to his shoulder.
My guard keeps a close eye on his counterpart, waiting for the warrior to head for the exit. When he feels like the threat against me is less, he smiles and says, “Try not to kill the prince, Your Grace.”
I sigh and sink into a chair at the small round table in the middle of the room. “I’ll try.”
The door slides back into place with a click, and the room falls eerily quiet. I fold my arms on the tabletop and rest my head on them, trying my hardest to ignore Kyron. Being alone with him reminds me of the first time we met. The tension was thick, and I was unsure what to say to win him over. I remind myself that it’s not me who has to win him over anymore. He is the one who broke my trust. However, the thought does little to cure my curiosity.
I spare him a glance and slowly raise my head to get a better look. Sweat beads on his forehead, and every breath he takes is purposeful, like he’s trying to avoid more pain. The color has drained from his lips, and he doesn’t appear able to focus his gaze.
“Kyron, are you all right?” I ask, trying my damnedest to not soundtruly concerned.
“Even the littlest movement hurts. It’s like something is still stuck in my shoulder,” he says, gasping for air.
“Maybe a piece of the wood is still lodged inside you.”
“I don’t know, but I’m feeling sick.”
“Shit,” I mumble. If he is already catching a fever, this can’t be good. I stand and rifle through the cabinets along the wall, looking for medical supplies. Inside a drawer, I find a satchel of steel operating tools and bandages. I move on to the top cupboards, shoving items of food to the side until I come upon a bottle of whiskey. With my findings in hand, I join Kyron at his bedside.
“You’re going to need to sit up for a moment,” I say.
He does as I ask, and with slow, steady fingers, I release the golden buttons running down the front of his jacket. It’s such a mundane act, yet it feels very intimate, like the type of thing we shouldn’t be doing.
“This might hurt,” I warn, and slide the thick fabric over his shoulders and down his arms.
He hisses, and his face contorts in pain.
“Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” he pants.
“I’m not done. I need to remove your shirt too.”
He groans and lifts his arms above his head, and I pull off his tunic. It takes everything in me not to stare at the hills and planes of his tan chest, or the tattoo that runs down his side in the ancient text of the Statera. Even the Lucent and Stigian crests inked on his bicep try to catch my attention. Battle scars litter his chest and back, and I miss the feeling of the imperfect skin against my palm. My fingers tingle at just the thought of touching him.
I set aside his tunic, uncork the bottle of whiskey, and hand it to him. “You need to drink this.”
He takes a long swig, keeping his eyes on me. My skin prickles into goosebumps under his gaze. At the core of who I am, I’m compelled to react, but I stifle the longing. Turning away from him, I prepare the supplies I’ll need between us on the mattress.
When he pulls the bottle away from his lips with a pop, I grab it and take a long swig. Just a little liquid courage to get me through this.
Like I’m leaping off a building, I lift the bottle over Kyron’s shoulder and quickly say, “This is going to burn.” The contents drizzle onto his wound.
He jolts and clenches the blankets under him. “Fuck! You could have warned me, Raelle.”
