We stared at each other. His jaw worked like he was chewing on words he couldn’t quite force out.
“I mean it, Varyth.” My voice dropped lower, more dangerous. “Either you tell me where you keep the pain tonics, or I’m getting someone with actual authority over your stubborn ass to make you rest. And somehow I don’t think you want half your court knowing their High Lord is too much of an idiot to take care of himself.”
“Bathing chambers,” he ground out. “Top shelf. Left side. Blue bottle.”
I turned on my heel and strode back into the bathing chambers, scanning the shelves until I found what I was looking for. The blue bottle was smaller than the healing tonics, its contents dark and viscous. I grabbed it and headed back out.
Varyth hadn’t moved from the chair, still shirtless and bleeding subtle defiance.
“Get into bed.”
His eyebrows rose. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“Isara—”
“I’m not arguing about this.” I stepped closer, using every inch of authority I possessed. “You’re injured. You’re exhausted. And you’re going to rest whether you like it or not. So either you walk your stubborn ass over to that bed, or I will physically put you there myself. And given the state you’re in, I don’t think you’ll enjoy the experience.”
For a moment, I thought he might actually fight me on it. His silver eyes tracked mine with that calculating intensity, weighing options, assessing outcomes.
Then slowly—finally—he stood.
I watched him move toward the bed. He sank onto the edge of the mattress with more grace than someone in his condition had any right to possess, swinging his legs up and settling back against the pillows.
“Happy?” he asked, and despite everything, there was amusement in the word.
“Ecstatic.” I crossed to the bookshelf near the window, scanning the spines until I found something that looked halfway interesting. Some treatise on territorial magic. Perfect. Boring enough to keep me occupied without actually engaging my brain.
I grabbed the book and turned back toward the bed. Varyth was watching me with that unreadable expression, probably expecting me to drag a chair over or leave entirely.
Instead, I kicked off my boots and climbed onto the other side of the bed, settling against the headboard with the book in my lap.
“What are you doing?”
I didn’t look up. “Reading.”
“Isara.”
“Varyth.”
“You don’t need to stay.”
“Didn’t say I did.” I turned a page. “But I’m staying anyway.”
The mattress shifted slightly as he turned his head toward me. I could feel the weight of his stare, could practically hear him thinking, calculating, trying to figure out how to dismiss me without sounding like a complete ass.
“Why?” The question was softer than I expected. Less command, more genuine confusion.
I finally looked at him.
“Because I’m still pissed at you, but if you bleed out before I can properly shove you for being a manipulative bastard, it will absolutely ruin the effect.” I held up the blue bottle. “Now drink this before I change my mind about the whole ‘dragging a healer up here’ thing.”
He took the bottle from my hand, our fingers brushing in the exchange. The contact sent heat spiralling through me, and judging by the way his breath hitched, he felt it too.
Varyth uncorked the bottle and downed the contents in one smooth motion, his throat working on the swallow. When he finished, he set the empty bottle on the bedside table and settled back against the pillows.
“I should’ve left you in the Veil,” he muttered, but there was no heat in it. Just exhaustion and fondness.
