I don’t know how to undo any of this. Especially not when the king keeps lighting these little flames of attraction. They started the moment we met, when he defended me in front of Dane, and they continued all the way into the hut, when he made that vow to Asher. In that moment, I thought this alliance could truly work, that we could find accord. When he tricked us, I thought he doused any chance of us ever coming to terms.
But another flicker of interest sparked to life when he called me formidable—and he had his men lower their weapons. It blazed hotter when he handed over his food, and it flared through me when his voice went soft and he called Asher to kneel at his feet. I’m reminded of the way Ky pulled me into his lap when we sat astride the horse, his breath warm against my hair, his arms protective around me.
The king’s bracers are piled by the fire with his sword, and he quickly works the buckles at his rib cage to pull his breastplate free, leaving him in a knit tunic that clings to the broad muscles of his chest. It’s the first time I’ve seen him without his armor, and I can’t help but stare. He’s such a contrast to Asher, who’s as lean and agile as an acrobat.
The king pulls a dagger from a sheath in his greaves, but he doesn’t toss this one with the rest of his weapons. He straightens, keeping it in his hand.
That ready tension snaps back into Asher’s body, and the chain goes taut. The balls of his feet press against the floorboards.
“Relax.” The king flips the dagger in his hand, then holds out the blade to me, hilt first. His voice is low, and maybe a little sad. “Here, Princess. He’ll trust you. Cut the rest of the tunic free.”
“No,” says Asher.
“Yes. It’s already sticking to the wound, and it’ll only get worse. You’re risking infection. It needs to dry.”
Asher’s blue eyes seem to darken. But he swallows, which makes me think the king’s words are true.
“Would you rather pull it over your head?” says Ky. “I’m sure it wasn’t enjoyable when they put iton.”
Asher looks away, and his voice goes very quiet. “I don’t want her to see.”
I frown. “Maybe...” My own voice has gone thready. Again, I think of all the times he avoided my touch, how I thought it was propriety. Chivalry. In the last day, I’ve begun to realize it’s something else. Something much darker.
I don’t want your pity either.
My stomach clenches again.
“Here,” I say to the king. I move to hand the dagger back. “Maybe you should do it, then. I’ll...I’ll go.”
Asher whips his head around. “No. Stop. Just—” He makes a frustrated noise, then sets his jaw and glares at the fire. “It doesn’t matter. Just do it, Jor.”
That sounds more like resignation than acceptance, but I move to kneel beside him. The straw of the bedding shifts under my knees, and I can see that he’s leaked through his shirt a little more, probably from all the movement. Even covered, what I can see of his skin is red and angry, the swelling spread well away from the brand. It must be agonizing. I remember the guard punching him in the shoulder, the sound he made. My belly gives a clench, and I swallow.
Everything between us seems so precarious—and Asher just said he doesn’t want me to see. “Are you sure?”
His eyes don’t leave the fire. “Yes.”
I put the blade against the neckline of his tunic and it slices right through, razor-sharp. I’m slow and careful, trying not to cut him, but also trying not to pull at the fabric. He went pale when the king barely tugged at it downstairs. But as the tunic begins to fall away, every inch reveals the smooth, muscled curve of his shoulder. I haven’t seen thismuch of his bare skin since we were young, when we used to sneak out of the palace to swim in the deep creek that runs through the woods. We’d lie in the sun to dry, always in varying states of undress. Never anythingtoobold, because he was raised as a gentleman, and we were still children. But I remember the summer he suddenly turned into a young man, his knobby shoulders gone, his frame fuller, his jaw sharper.
His shoulders are broader now, of course, cords of muscle running down his arms, surely an effect of whatever training he endures. But the memory is potent, and I rest a hand against his skin, my fingers falling into the dip and slope just inside his good shoulder.
He stiffens at once, inhaling sharply, and it gives me a jolt. I think of the way he whirled on the king downstairs—just after I touched him then, too.
I jerk my hand back. “I’m sorry,” I say in a rush. “I’m sorry.” I’m not sure what else to say. “I know—I know how much you hate that.”
A moment passes, and he says nothing. But he’s not glaring at the king anymore. He’s cast his gaze over his shoulder, that white-blond hair falling across his forehead.
“It’s not that I hate it,” he says, his voice so quiet. “I’m just...broken, Jory.”
I stare back at him. As the tunic has begun to fall away, I’ve spotted more bruising, some of which he must have earned in the palace dungeons. But scarred tissue mars his skin in places, too, and there are older bruises that have turned yellow and blue. Older scars, older wounds, older injuries—and I never knew about any of them. His body tells a story I’ve never heard.
They must have done the first brand right after his mother died. Right aftermymother died. I was sobbing at my brother’s feet, and I thought nothing could possibly be worse.
For Asher, it clearly was.
I’m just broken.
My throat is tight.
