But then I consider . . .everything, and it falls.
Jax must feel the change in my body. His voice goes a bit cool as he says, “I suppose the King’s Courier shouldn’t be the subject of idle gossip on the morning he’s due to leave. To say nothing of the new blacksmith.”
He clearly doesn’t need his hands to fight—and the worst part is that he’s not even trying. “Jax.”
“Is there hay in the loft?” he says. He shifts to pull free, and I let him go. “We should feed Teddy. It’s late.”
I swallow and nod. He’s reaching for his crutches, dodging my eyes.
We keep coming to this point, and I don’t know how to end up at any other.
Maybe he was right about fate.
He was definitely right about anger. I can feel it clearly now, coiled and waiting again, looking for a target. It’s not him, it’s not the king, it’s not the scravers, it’s . . . ?all of it.
“I’ll climb up and throw some hay down,” I say, just to break the silence. Then I turn away before I have to say anything else.
The loft is warm and dry, full of the sweet scent of alfalfa and timothy grasses. Half the space is filled with straw for bedding, too, and plenty is spread across the floor from where bales have spilled open, making for an almost plush coating underfoot that silences my footsteps. When the horses below hear me rustling with the hay, a few others nicker for their share, so I throw some into each stall.
I’m grateful for the work, the distraction. I haven’t done this in years, and again, it reminds me of my time in the tourney. There are even cots in the corner, likely for stable hands to keep watch over foaling mares or sick horses. Grey and I shared a corner of the loft back at the tourney, and it’s so dark up here that I could close my eyes and be fifteen again, just a boy tending horses, long before my world grew so complicated.
I was angry then, too, though I didn’t know it.
Aggravated, I rip another bale open and throw hay to the horses on the other side of the stable. My movements are tight and controlled, every muscle longing for movement. Action. Release. I wish those soldiers were still here, because I’d find a sword and start swinging.
When I turn for more, Jax is ten feet behind me, and I give a little jump. He only has one crutch, and I’m somewhat amazed that he was able to navigate the ladder that leads up to the hayloft.
“Jax,” I say in surprise.
He makes his way across the loft floor to me, and his crutch makes no sound through the straw. His eyes are intense, even in the darkness.
When he reaches me, he takes hold of my vest again, pulling me close. I balk, inhaling to protest, but his hand turns into a fist, holding tight.
“You once said you could fight all night,” he says. “Did you mean it?”
“Yes.”
“Then fight.” His eyes spark with light from somewhere. “If that’s all we can do, I’ll fight with you all night.”
It’s not a threat. It’s an offer, and it makes my chest clench.
“Promise?” I whisper.
Jax nods, and he steps into me again, sharing his warmth. “Always.”
CHAPTER 10
JAX
Despite my vow, we don’t fight.
Tycho climbs down the ladder to strip Mercy of her gear and returns with some saddle blankets thrown over one arm and the lantern swinging from the other. He lashes the lantern to a post and lowers the wick a bit, until we’re surrounded by flickering shadows. There are some dusty, narrow cots in the corner, but Tycho spreads the saddle blankets over the soft piles of alfalfa near the far end of the loft, and we sprawl there instead, listening to the night. If anyone finds us here, we plan to say that Teddy seemed colicky, but we knew Master Hugh was away and we didn’t want to leave the horse unattended.
We’ve been mostly silent, exhaustion looming, but neither of us has said a word about sleep. Not with the prospect of him leaving in a matter of hours. He’s worried about leavingme, but somehowI’msupposed to watch him climb aboard his horse, knowing he’ll be a potential target. I imagine a scraver ripping him right off the back of Mercy, only he’d be alone, no one to help him. Or someone like Aleklying in wait, arrows nocked, ready to fire as soon as Tycho rode into view.
But I can’t seem to focus on any of that, because Tycho is propped up on one elbow, gazing down at me in the shadows. He’s been winding a lock of my hair through his fingers. Over . . . ?and over . . . ?and over again.
Most of the unease has finally escaped his eyes, and I wish he could always look like this, with gold sparking in his hair and nothing but warmth between us. I want him so badly that I can feel it through every fiber of my body. I reach up and stroke a finger across his cheekbone, and he turns his head to kiss my fingertips.
