“What, pray tell, did you bring?”
“Toast, with jam and butter. Coffee. I’m sorry, it’s weak, there wasn’t much left.”
I handed him the steaming cup, trying not to get too close, afraid I might run my fingers over that damage, start feeling things I should not be feeling.Although it might already be too late.
“Gods.”
He lifted the steaming cup to his nose and closed his eyes, long, dark lashes curving against the high cheekbones, making him look like a painting.
“I thought I dreamt this smell when I woke up a few minutes ago. Good to know this is real.”
He peered at me over the rim of his cup, the humor fading from his face.
“Don’t look at me like that. I’ve been through this before,” he said quietly. “I’ll heal, it just takes longer these days, since Gravelock sucked all the magic out of this realm like a fucking Soul Reaper. And now, if my faulty memory serves, we’re one step closer to killing that sick fuck.”
Yes, he probably didn’t remember much from last night, since he’d passed out right after Ryland and Varian’s dramatic entrance. But I wasn’t going to be the one to break the disappointing news we only had two out of three relics.
“A sick fuck who almost killed you.”
My fingers tightened on the tray before I set it down beside a pile of books.
“Let me look at those, make sure you’re healing. Varian sent up some salve, which should speed up the healing.”
I nodded to his arms.
“I should rewrap those deeper cuts so they don’t get infected.”
He managed a weak smile.
“Wrap away, commander. Look in that closet; there are some shirts I’m not quite so attached to, since you insist on wantonly destroying my things. But I’m keeping the coffee. Shitty as it is, you can pry this out of my cold, dead hands.”
My mouth quirked before I could stop myself.
“Far be it from me to separate the Dark Prince from his favorite morning beverage.”
For a pompous aristocrat, his room was simple, with books stacked everywhere, a few pieces of heavy, carved furniture, and a couple of those paintings—like the one sitting on the easel in Ryland’s room—hung on the plain white walls. Thick, arched beams spanned the ceiling, and over in the corner, two crows slept close together, heads tucked beneath their wings.
I found an old white shirt, which I carefully ripped into long strips, arranging them over the books. The bowl of clean water I’d brought up was still warm, and after a short deliberation with myself, I settled my hip on the edge of the bed, as far away from Rooke’s very naked one as I could manage.
“Arm,” I ordered, then unwrapped last night’s bandage, wet a cloth, and carefully cleaned around the deep gash, then spread on a thin layer of salve, the pungent smell making my eyes water.
At least, I kept telling myself these tears were only because of the smell.
Not because my heart was hurting, or anger was getting the better of me, or all I could think about was how long hadRooke been alone in this place, a victim of such terrible cruelty.
Neither of us said a word as I redressed the worst of his wounds, cataloging how slowly he was healing. I didn’t ask how many times Gravelock had hurt him or who took care of him afterwards.
Instead, I told him about the Citadelle. About Queen Anaria and Tavion and Tristan, about recruiting the biggest, meanest soldiers from the Caladrian army and turning them into the Dreadwatch. How I’d sent six of them to the Shadowlands, then received their heads back in a burlap sack.
“I suppose you’ve already figured this out, but that was Gravelock, not me,” he murmured. “I’m not in the habit of killing people for poking around, or Ryland and Varian would have been dead long ago.”
“I know that now. They were good men with families. They didn’t deserve to die, especially not so far away from home.”Especially not because of me.
I carefully wound another strip of fabric around his forearm before tying it off.
“As for Gravelock, he will answer for their deaths.”
“Tell me more about your Dreadwatch,” he asked curiously. “They sound fearsome.”
