Which was why Bryn’s voice startled her all the more.
“Oh, for the love of the seven sacred herbs,” came the exasperated voice from the doorway. “Would it kill you to wear clothes, Jake?”
Jakobav didn’t flinch. “You’re a healer. You’ve seen worse.”
“Yes, but now I will have to unsee it before lunch.”
The old man swept in, basket hooked over one arm, his expression vaguely offended by the sight of Jakobav’s chest. He gave Ella a deliberate once-over as he set the basket down with a thunk.
“Still alive, I see,” Bryn said cheerfully, breezing into the room as if death was no more troublesome than a stubbed toe. “That’s promising.”
“She’s stable,” Jakobav replied, his voice clipped.
Bryn raised a brow. “Stable isn’t the word I’d use for someone who threatened to disembowel her rescuer.”
“I didn’t threaten,” Ella said. “I strongly implied.”
“Ah.” Bryn’s eyes glinted with mischief. “Semantics. Now, let’s have a look at your wounds, dear. Don’t worry, I’m mostly professional. I’ll leave the ogling to Jake.”
Ella grimaced but lifted her shirt enough for him to inspect the bandage. His hands moved with disarming efficiency, too precise for someone so endlessly distracted by his own running commentary. She almost forgot to flinch, until he paused.
Her breath caught. His eyes were not on the bandage anymore. They were fixed just above it, staring at the place her ancestral mark should have been.
Panic surged. She looked down, desperate to confirm what she already knew: the sigil was still invisible. But his stare made her chest feel exposed all the same, as if he could see the power branded beneath her skin.
Jakobav’s gaze flicked toward her at that exact moment, tracking her stillness, and though his expression never shifted, his attention landed heavy, as if he’d filed her reaction away to be examined later.
Bryn’s easy smile remained, but for all his quick hands and quicker tongue, there was something in his stillness that unsettled her. Humor made him appear harmless, but his eyes belonged to someone older than he looked. Not in his face, not in the nimbleness of his work, but in the way his gaze fastened on details most would miss, in the way his words sometimes tasted like warnings instead of jokes.
“Hmm.”
Ella’s head snapped up. “What?”
“Oh, nothing,” Bryn said lightly, too lightly. “Just that your skin is looking a little pale. Like someone doused your inner flame with a bucket of ice water.”
But he was not looking at her wound when he said it, he was looking straight into her eyes.
And in that gaze, older than his face and keener than his grin, she felt as though he knew far too much.
Her mouth went dry. How much did he suspect, and how much did he already know?
If he’d felt her flame, if he’d glimpsed the invisible sigil, then he knew exactly what she was; only those of royal blood carried the mark of Orchid.
Her stomach turned.
Had he already told Jakobav? Or was he waiting for her to confess it herself?
Either way, that was never going to happen.
“Strange,” Bryn mused, tilting his head. “Usually trauma makes it flare brighter, not vanish. Unless…” His grin widened, wickedly pleased. “Something distracting you, sweetheart? Emotional upset? Someone scrambling your internal compass?”
Heat rushed to Ella’s face so quickly her ears burned. Jakobav’s eyes shot to her, dark and intent, and the awareness of him made her skin prickle.
“Stop talking,” she hissed at Bryn.
The insufferable healer only grinned wider. “Say no more.”
With an exaggerated flourish, he packed his kit, snapped the latch shut, and rose. “The one marked with secrets appears to be healing beautifully.” His wink was all mockery as he glanced toward Jakobav, who was pulling a tunic over his chest. Then Bryn swept out the door looking far too smug for someone who was supposed to be a healer.
