“I think I stood up too soon,” she murmurs against his chest.
That much seems obvious. His own dizziness still fills his head. Unsure what else to do, he guides her to his bed and lowers himself to the edge beside her before they both faint. That familiar heat begins to grow, but he shoves it back. For now.
“I wanted to make sure you were all right,” she whispers. “Though I suppose it could have waited.”
“Are you all right?”
“I think so. And at least now I know.”
He frowns. “Know what?”
She glances down at his chest and bites her lip before looking away. “You definitely sleep without your shirt.”
Heat courses through him, flaming his bare shoulders and seeping to the tips of his ears. Whistling wind. Has she been imagining him without a shirt?
“Don’t run,” she whispers.
He can barely stand. He certainly won’t be running anywhere.
No matter how strong the urge to flee is.
Fighting back the dizziness swirling behind his eyes, he pushes himself off the bed and totters toward the wardrobe, grabbing a linen shirt he rarely wears and throwing it over his head.
Not that it matters, does it? They’re bound. There’s no reason she shouldn’t see his bare chest.
Except his hands are warm again.
He needs to speak to Father, whether he wants to or not, before he burns Arisanna in the real world.
Lowering himself back to the edge of the bed, he juts his chin at her hands. “Do they still hurt?”
She holds her palms up and flexes them. “They’re fine.”
Thank the fates for that.
She opens her mouth again, but before she can speak, there’s a knock at the door. Her eyes fill with panic, and she pushes herself off the bed, stumbling toward her door as if she’s afraid to get caught in his chamber. He’s a little embarrassed at the thought, too, but clearly not as much as she is.
Memories of the way she tried to sneak back to his room at the castle after their night in the astronomy tower fill him, and a smile tugs unbidden at his lips.
Her strange behavior is oddly endearing.
The knock repeats as she slips away, and he rubs his eyes and finds his feet. At least the room ceased its spinning.
Stifling a yawn, he pulls open the door to the corridor. It’s Cook with food. Since when does Cook deliver breakfast herself?
“Now, don’t go getting any ideas, Master Cerian.” Cook shoves the tray into his hands. “I won’t be hand-delivering your breakfast myself every day. But I don’t trust anyone else not to burn down Windhaven, so here I am.”
With a flourish, she douses the stack of sweet bread with some kind of liqueur and lights it with her fire magic. The bright flash makes Cerian flinch, but he holds the tray steady, and the flame quickly dies down as dread fills his gut.
Cook only makes her famous flaming sweet bread on certain special occasions, and when he realizes the date, he gulps.
“Happy birthday, Master Cerian. Now go eat before your food cools.” Wiping her hands on her apron, Cook turns back down the corridor, and Cerian stares at the tray.
Hopefully, Arisanna didn’t witness any of that.
Cerian pushes the door shut and turns. To his dismay, Arisanna’s mirthful eyes greet him as she wanders closer.
“Were you planning to tell me it’s your birthday?”
