“You know,” he said, clearing his throat. “Soft. Sentimental. Not exactly intimidating to strum a lute in a fight.”
A small, disbelieving breath escaped me. “That is not what I witnessed.”
His silence sharpened, attentive.
“It is magnificent," I declared, the words tasting like confession. “You persuaded a room full of monsters with music alone, without spilling any blood. That is not weakness, Mav.” I searched for a word strong enough to hold the truth of it. “That is…magic.”
He did not answer immediately. Mav released the reins, wrapping his arms around me to embrace me, his head tucked to my neck. I raised my hands to hold his arms against me and felt the curve of his smile against my skin. A long, slow breath moved through us both, syncing, steadying.
“Thank you, princess,” he murmured near my ear, his voice rough. “I-I was so scared they had…that you were…”
“I am safe, thanks to you,” I whispered back, my voice breaking on the last word.
In that darkness, terror took root. Not the terror of Rouzbeh, though its shadows would haunt me indefinitely. No, this was the manner of fear born from almost losing something you had no desire to live without.
When the goblins dragged me through that door, when therope bit my skin, it was not death I feared. I was terrified of never seeing him again. Of never hearing his voice. Of never feeling this steady, infuriating, impossible man at my back, holding me in a world that had taken everything else.
It was one thing to care for someone; another entirely to need them—to no longer desire to exist in a world without them. As much as it scared me to admit, I needed him. I wanted him. And I was through pretending otherwise.
By the timeThe Wandering Rootrose from the treewalks, my pulse still raced too fast to match the quiet scene. Mav dismounted with a grunt, boots splashing in a shallow puddle. He steadied the horse with one hand, the other prepared to assist me. I slid from the saddle, my knees buckling slightly, but Mav wrapped an arm around my waist to keep me upright.
Shubre appeared at the door, her candle stump throwing lopsided shadows. “You’re late,” she said, tone sharp, but her gaze softened when it caught on the dirt, the bruises, the blood. “I’ll send food up…and I’ll call for a Hands.”
I tried to thank her, but my voice failed me. Mav only nodded, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in gratitude. We climbed the winding staircase in silence. Every step was an argument between my body and my will, with neither emerging the victor. My legs shook with exhaustion. My wrists burned where the ropes had cut. My shoulders throbbed from the goblins’ claws. At our door, Mav opened it and held it wide.
Once the door had shut behind us, I locked my arms around his torso. My fingers grasped the torn fabric of his tunic before I even realized I had moved. The words tumbled out, raw and unadorned.
“I was so frightened,” I confessed, pressing my forehead to his chest.
His exhale shuddered through me. Mav wrapped his armsaround me. One hand rested at my hip, the other between my shoulder blades. For a moment, I stood there, breathing him in.
A knock sounded at the door.
Shubre’s voice called, “I have a Hands here to see you, and some food.”
Mav released me, but my arms stayed around him. He chuckled softly and gently grabbed my hands, easing them down. He pressed a soft kiss to the crown of my head.
“Let’s get patched up, all right?”
All I managed was a feeble nod before the door swung inward. Shubre stood in the doorway, a tray in her arms. Behind her came a woman with a leather healer’s pack slung across one shoulder and a face like sunlight after a bitter winter. Her hair, white as snow, was braided into a crown atop her head.
“This is Mirete,” Shubre said briskly, setting a covered tray on the small table by the wall. “One of the best Hands in the kingdom.”
Mirete dipped her head, a smile crinkling her umber skin. “Let me see who needs mending most.”
“Quinn,” Mav said immediately, his tone leaving no room for argument. He was still standing rigid beside me, one hand hovering near my back as if he could not quite stop himself from guarding me. “Please, start with her.”
My protest lodged in my throat. He looked so battered—blood streaking his temple, his tunic torn, his shoulders sagging under exhaustion—and yet his only concern was me.
Mirete’s dark eyes warmed. “Very well, my dear. Sit.” She waved to the bed.
I obeyed, though my body trembled with fatigue. My hands clenched, bracing for whatever came next. Mirete crouched before me, her movements unhurried. She took my wrists gently, turning them to examine the burns. Her touch was warm, grounding.
“This may sting for a moment,” she warned.
A white glow emanated from her palms. When she placed her hands on my skin, the warmth did not resemble flame. It was deeper, as if it seeped into my blood and rewrote it. The ache in my wrists dulled, then disappeared. The light spread upward, tracing scrape and bruise, knitting torn skin together, soothing every pain.
My breath slowed, my shoulders sagging with relief. When Mirete released me, I realized tears streaked down my face. I swiped them away quickly.
