"The meeting—"
"Is over." I pull her to her feet. Gentle. Careful of her ribs. My other hand finds her waist to steady her and I don't want to let go. Don't want to stop touching her. "You're hungry."
Behind me, Renan laughs. Low. Genuine.
"We'll continue tomorrow," he tells the room. "Same time. Assuming our lord doesn't have more pressing concerns. Like lunch."
I don't turn around.
She's hungry.
Everything else can burn.
He's still holding my hand.
Through the corridor, past staff who flatten themselves against walls, down stairs I don't recognize. His grip isn't tight—just there. Constant. His thumb brushing across my knuckles in a rhythm I don't think he notices.
My skin is too aware of it. Every pass of his thumb. The dry heat of his palm. I stare straight ahead and pretend I don't feel any of it.
The kitchens are large and industrial, all stone counters and iron fixtures, the smell of bread and something savory I can't identify. Three people in Discord's colors look up when we enter.
"Out."
One word. They're gone in seconds, the door swinging shut behind them.
Silence.
He turns to me, those white eyes moving over my face, my throat, settling somewhere around my collarbone before snapping back up.
"Sit."
"I'm fine standing."
"You're favoring your left side. Your breathing is shallow. You've been upright for hours and your ribs haven't healed." He steps closer. "Sit."
"There aren't any chairs."
His hands close around my waist.
I'm on the counter before my brain catches up—just lifted, deposited, my ass hitting stone and my legs dangling. His hands stay on my hips for a second longer than necessary. His thumbs press into the soft space above my hipbones and my stomach flips.
Then he steps back and the cold air rushes in where his hands were.
Well. At least someone thinks I'm portable. Silver lining.
"Was that necessary?"
"Yes."
"I could have—"
"You couldn't." He's already moving, opening cabinets, pulling out bread and cheese and something in a jar. "You would have tried. Hurt yourself. Pretended you didn't."
"You don't know that."
He glances back at me. Just once. "I know exactly that."
I don't have a response. He's right—annoyingly, impossibly right—and I hate that he can read me when I've spent years making myself unreadable.
