“How long?” My throat felt like I’d swallowed glass.
“A few hours,” a third voice rumbled. I turned to find the male from the garden, the one with the split-dye hair and battle leathers that looked like they’d survived apocalypses.
His skin was the colour of cedar, warm and rich against the stark contrast of his midnight-blue hair. A brutal scar carved diagonally across his face, from temple to jaw, catching the corner of his mouth and twisting it into a permanent scowl that made even his neutral expression look vaguely threatening. Like the universe had decided to make smiling a combat manoeuvre.
His battle leathers were well-worn but masterfully crafted, deep charcoal-black, fastened with burgundy leather straps and reinforced with metal plates over his shoulders that caught the firelight.
He watched me with dark teal eyes that saw too much. “Your children have been asking for you. We told them you were resting.”
“They believed that?” I choked out a laugh. “Mireth knows better. She always knows.”
“Perhaps,” Varyth said quietly. “But for now, she’s choosing to believe it. Let her have that.”
The words should have comforted me. Instead, they made everything worse, because he was right. Mireth was six years old and already learning to pretend, to protect herself with comfortable lies.
I’d done that to her. A year of running had taught my daughter how to lie to herself.
“I need to see them.” I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, ignoring how the room swayed. “I need to?—”
“You need to sit down before you fall down,” the male said, his voice a deep thunder that carried the weight of someone used to being obeyed.
“Fuck off.” I didn’t even look at him. “Who the hell are you anyway?”
“Lincatheron.” He didn’t seem offended by my hostility. If anything, something that might have been approval flickered across his brutal features. “Master of Arms. And you’re about two seconds from passing out again, so how about you stop being stubborn and?—”
The door crashed open.
I flinched, my body coiling to fight or flee or whatever the fuck would keep me alive for the next five seconds.
But it wasn’t attackers.
It was two women, and they looked pissed.
“Out.” Shaelith stood in the doorway, white hair falling in waves over one shoulder, cocoa skin almost glowing with fury. “All of you. Out. Now.”
“We need to debrief—” Lincatheron tried.
“And you can do thataftershe’s had five minutes without a wall of masculinity suffocating her.” Shaelith made a shooing motion. “Go. Find something productive to do. Break things. Brood. Whatever it is you people do.”
Behind her, another woman appeared in the doorway. The one from the training field, Darian’s mate. Eilrys. Though she’d seemed softer then, less like she was considering multiple forms of violence. “She means it. Out.”
“We were just—” Darian started.
“Looming,” Eilrys finished. “You were looming. All of you. Like a murder of very stupid, very well-intentioned crows.”
Varyth opened his mouth.
“Don’t,” Shaelith warned.
For a heartbeat, I thought Varyth might argue. His jaw tightened, silver eyes flashing.
Then he inclined his head. “Of course.”
The three males filed out like chastised children. Darian shot Eilrys an apologetic look as he passed. She blew him a kiss that somehow managed to be both affectionate and threatening.
The silence that followed felt like oxygen after drowning.
“Sit.” Shaelith gestured to one of the plush chairs. Not a suggestion. “Before you actually do pass out and make this my problem.”
