"I don't..." He ran a hand through his hair, messing the perfect strands. "I don't know what to do with you."
"You could start by letting me walk to the bath room."
"Absolutely not." But there was a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. "I am impressed by your continued efforts."
"Worth a shot." She settled back against the pillows. "So what now? You're going to keep me bed-bound forever?"
"Until you're healed."
"Iamhealed."
"Your opinion, lacking in any medical expertise, is noted and dismissed." He returned to his chair but didn't pick up his papers. Instead, he watched her openly now, cataloguing every detail. "You'll stay in that bed until I'm satisfied you won't keel over."
"And how long will that take?"
"As long as necessary."
She wanted to argue more, but the truth was... she didn't hate this. This strange, almost-soft version of him that brought her breakfast and counted her breaths. It was confusing and probably dangerous for entirely different reasons than his cruelty.
But it wasn't just the warmth in her chest that hummed contentment every time he fussed, or checked her temperature or adjusted her blankets or brought her tiny purple flowers that served no medicinal purpose whatsoever.
It was her too. Her own traitorous heart that sped up when he entered the room. Her body relaxing under his careful touch. Her eyes that tracked him when he moved about her chambers, memorizing this unfamiliar tenderness. She was starting to anticipate his visits, to listen for his footsteps, to feel disappointed when he left.
That was the truly dangerous part, not the magical warmth reaching for him, but her own very human self doing the same.
"Stop smiling," he said.
"I'm not smiling."
"You are. I can see it."
"Then stop looking."
"No."
And there it was, that strange new honesty between them. He wouldn't stop looking. She wouldn't stop noticing. And neither of them would acknowledge what was actually happening here.
It was safer that way.
Even if safety was starting to feel more dangerous than drowning.
The healer arrived the next morning, announced by a brownie who looked terrified.
She was ancient, that much was clear from the way even the air seemed to defer to her. When she entered, she inclined her head to Eliam. Respectful, but not subservient.
"Lord Eliam. You requested my assessment."
"Yes." He set down his documents but remained in his chair. "I want to know if she's fully recovered."
The healer moved to Briar's bedside with practiced efficiency. "Lady Briar. I need to examine you."
"Of course," Briar said, sitting up straighter.
The healer's hands were gentle but thorough—checking pulse, breathing, reflexes. She examined the fading bruises from the river, tested Briar's grip strength, had her follow a finger with her eyes.
"Any lingering pain?"
"No."
