“Forgive me,” Tycho says, and I can’t possibly imagine what he’s apologizing for, but he adds, “I should have done this before I made you get on Mercy. I didn’t realize how bad it was—and I was worried your father was going to come after you again.” He grimaces. “When you carry a lot of weapons, they start to look like the only solution. Ribs all right now?”
Does that mean he would’ve killed my father? Or something else? I stare at him, dumbfounded, and I have to force myself to nod.
He sits back on his heels, and only then do I realize that Lord Tycho was touching my bare chest, and all I could think about was not emptying my stomach onto the floorboards. My thoughts scatter wildly again. He might have fixed my ribs, but my head won’t stop spinning.
Tycho lifts a hand as if he’s going to touch my face—but he hesitates. “I know you hate the magic,” he says carefully. “Or … orme, maybe. But your face doesn’t look very good either.”
I have to stare at him again. “I don’t hate you.” I swallow, and all I taste is blood. “You don’t like my face?”
“That’s not what I meant.” He smiles, and it’s half amused, half sad.“He got you good. Noah would likely say you have aconcussion.” Tycho lifts that hand again. “May I?”
He could be offering to set me on fire and my thoughts wouldn’t be able to process it. “Yeah,” I breathe.
Despite what he said, and despite whatIsaid, I’m still startled when his fingertips settle on my cheek. My whole body gives a jolt, but his other hand catches the good side of my face, forcing me still.
“Shh,” he says gently. “It just hurts for a moment. You remember.”
And he’s right. I do. A quick flare of white-hot pain sears through my cheek and my jaw, followed by that honey-sweet warmth. But then I’m healed, my head is clear, and I’m staring at Lord Tycho from inches away. His eyes are so dark in the dim firelight, his hair flickering with gold. When his thumb brushes against my lip, my breath catches.
“Better?” he says quietly.
Yes. No. Both. Much like every other memory I create, this one is only going to bring pain. For a lot of reasons. But seeing as I’m only good for misfortune anyway, I close my eyes and lift a hand to hold his palm to my face.
I expect him to jerk away, but he doesn’t. He goes still, then lets out a long breath. After a moment, he shifts his hand, his thumb tracing the arch of my cheekbone.
Too late, I realize he’s brushing away tears. I frown and duck away.
He lets me go and sits back on his heels again.
“Forgive me,” I say again, and I swipe at my face. I’m not crying over pain anymore, and I’m not sure how to reconcile it.
“It’s not the first time I’ve seen a man cry,” he says. “There’s no shame in it.” There’s a kindness to the way he says that—but also something sharp and dark. It reminds me of the moment I asked if he liked being a soldier, how he said,The actual soldiering, not so much.
I shift in the chair until I’m more upright, and then I rub at my face, swiping the last of the tears away. Surely whatever tears he’s seen have been for bigger reasons than this. My shoulders feel tight suddenly, as if he’s seen too many things I keep hidden from everyone but Cal.
“You should take me back,” I say softly.
That breaks whatever spell kept him quietly at my side. Tycho uncurls from the floor, and he runs a hand along the back of his neck. “Your father should be dragged in front of the magistrate, Jax.”
“It was a misunderstanding. He didn’t know why I was yelling at you.”
“I didn’t know why you were yelling at me either, and I didn’t break your ribs over it.”
That makes me flush, and I look away, into the fire. “Thank you,” I say. “For what you did.”
“You’re welcome. Maybe next time we should work on how to block a punch instead of shooting arrows.”
Next time. I don’t know how to unravel any of this. I’m trapped in this horrible middle ground of never wanting to go back to the forge—and worrying that the longer I’m gone, the worse it will be when I get back.
“I need to wait for Jake,” Tycho says, and there’s a note in his voice that’s a bit rueful. “He’ll have some thoughts, I’m sure.” He’s moved across the room, and I hear something land on the bed with a softthump. I glance over to discover that he’s unbuckled his sword belt to toss the weapon on the quilt, followed quickly by his knife-lined bracers. His hand goes to his side next, flipping the buckles loose that hold his breastplate, and he only undoes half before dragging it over his head. He’s wearing a linen tunic beneath, and it’s pulled to his neck with the armor, revealing a long stretch of muscled waist before he catches the fabric to drag it back down.
What I see makes all the breath leave my lungs in a rush. Long ropes of scars cross his lower back.
He must hear me, because he looks over. I jerk my eyes away.
He says nothing. I say nothing. The silence swells between us. Eventually, he breaks it, heading for the washbasin in the corner, where he splashes water on his face.
Your father should be dragged in front of the magistrate.
