“My mother.” His voice lowered. “She insisted. Said dancing made you a better warrior. Some theory about balance and muscle control.” Mav looked away, expression twisting as if the memory had soured.
“She must be proud,” I offered.
His laugh held no light. “She wrote once,” he said. “After Ilost my standing. Said I’d made my bed and should be proud to lie in it. I never wrote back.” His jaw worked, as though chewing an old bitterness. “Pretty sure my name’s been scrubbed off the family ledgers.”
“I am sorry.” I had no balm sufficient for such a wound. “It is her loss.” Perhaps it was too intimate a statement to make, but I could not help but speak from the heart. “We are more than our scars, Mav. Those who cannot stand by you in the dark do not deserve a place at your side in the light.”
A small, sad smile bent his lips. And though he tried to blink it away, I caught the sheen of emotion in his eyes.
Unwilling to push him further, I offered a truth of my own. “I love dancing because it is the closest I shall ever come to flying.”
He turned and beheld me. Not as curiosity, relic, or cautionary tale, but as something singular and present. His hand shifted toward mine. Warm fingers brushed the back of my hand, then settled there, gentle as breath.
“Maybe we’ll get to fly again sometime.”
My throat tightened. I did not meet his eyes; the ache behind mine warned me not to. I could feel him watching—concerned now, as if he feared he had strayed too far. His fingers gave the smallest squeeze. I held on, only for a moment.
Thistle returned to the edge of the firelight, sleeves pushed to her elbows, hands smudged green with paste and crushed leaf. “All right,” she announced, brushing hair from her brow. “Clean and slathered with ointment. Time for the bandage.”
I nodded and moved to Mav’s side. He had braced himself half upright against a rolled blanket, firelight carving shadow and bronze across the lean planes of his torso. The wound was ugly—angry, rimmed with bruise—but the paste had done its work to halt the bleeding.
Thistle placed one end of the bandage in my hand and weworked in tandem—her guiding the linen, me passing and wrapping, snugging each round firm against his skin.
“Breathe in,” Thistle ordered, calm and inexorable.
Mav inhaled, and she drew the binding tight.
He groaned. “Do you enjoy torturing me?”
“Still talking,” she said with a grin. “You’ll live.” Thistle tidied the remnants and vanished back toward her supply bags.
We were alone again.
Only Mav and I, with the firelight holding all the words we had not said. His skin was too pale; sweat glistened at his temples. But his striking hazel eyes were clear and fixed on me as if I were a thing worth watching.
“You frightened me,” I confessed.
I was not meant to care so much. Not so soon. Not like this. But the sight of him falling—the sickening sound when he struck the ground—had dug a well of feeling so deep I feared I would never climb out.
His gaze did not waver. “I didn’t exactly plan on getting injured.”
“Of course not.” My voice tightened. “But, you must be more careful.”
His lips parted, but I interjected.
“I cannot—” The words slipped free before I could bar them. I bit my lip and caged the rest.
I cannot lose you.
A crease formed between his brows as he frowned, as though he had heard the words I swallowed. An inscrutable expression spread over his features. He slid his hand into mine and lifted it to his mouth. My heart stumbled as he kissed my knuckles. The press of his lips sent a dizzy heat spiraling through me.
“I’m sorry I scared you,” he said against my skin. “I promise the next time we’re attacked by bandits in the Saints-forsakenElderhollow, I’ll do my best not to get stabbed,” he added with a smirk.
I pulled my hand from his. “You make light of it, but I meant it in earnest.”
“As did I.” His gaze captured mine, pinning me to the spot. “I don’t make promises I can’t keep, Quinn.” He caught my hand again, kissing it once more—as though to prove he could.
“Then keep it.”
