I reach out and take his hand again, pressing it over my knee, holding it there. “Please,” I say.
He lets out a breath, and in the sound, I hear frustration. “It’s not . . . it’s notfair,” he says. “You’re beholden to the king. None of this is your fault. Not really.”
I frown. “None of what—”
“I wasangry, Tycho.” He finally looks at me, and his eyes are full of fire. “I was lonely and homesick and you were just— you weregone. And then you came back and you were goneagain. Every time!”
I swallow. “I know. I’m sorry—”
“Stop.I don’t want you to be sorry. Like I said, it’s not your fault. Ijust— I want— I want—” He jerks free of my grip and runs both hands back through his hair.
“Tell me,” I say more firmly. “Tell me what you want.”
“But why?” He scoffs. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t have any right to want anything.”
“Youdo.”
“Tycho, Ican’twant anything from the King’s Courier—”
“Silver hell, Jax!” My own anger finally flares. “Justtell me.”
“Fine.” His eyes blaze into mine. “Stop leaving me. That’s what I want. I want you to stopleavingme.”
He might as well have punched me in the gut. Air leaves my lungs in a rush. I look back at the night and run a hand over my jaw.
We’re both rigid, not touching now, staring into the darkness. Back where we started. The King’s Courier, always alone, always beholden to someone else’s needs. The poor blacksmith, always left behind.
But as I sit there and breathe, I realize that’s not quite accurate. At least not anymore.
We’re literally sitting here proving it.
I turn my head and look at him, then reach up to wind a finger through a lock of his hair. He looks so angry that I think he might punch me forreal, but I give his hair a gentle tug, and it has the same effect on him that his voice has on me. The anger melts off his face. His eyes soften.
“I didn’t leave you,” I say softly. “This time, you came along.”
He gives a little jerk, his eyes flaring wide, as if he’s struck by that.
I wind another lock of hair, letting it slide between my fingers like a satin ribbon. “While I was gone, you learned to ride, to shoot, to speak Emberish. Towalk, Jax. No one can leave you behind.No one.Never again.”
He flushes, and I can even see it in the shadows. “I can’t speak Emberish. Not yet.”
I give him a look, and his flush deepens. “Well,” he adds, “youtaught me how to shoot.”
“Not like you are now. I’ve seen you on the fields.”
His eyes flick up to meet mine. “Yeah?”
“I can’t keep my eyes off you.” I wind another lock, letting my thumb graze his cheek this time. He leans into my touch, so I do it again. When my fingers brush his mouth, his lips part, and something inside me clenches tight.
“You’re supposed to be keeping watch,” he whispers.
“Damnit,” I snap, jerking my hand down, turning my head to look out at the night.
But he moves closer, until we’re pressed together again, his hand against my knee, his head falling against my shoulder. Down the road, a man laughs heartily, his voice booming, then choking off as his silhouetted form practically falls out of the tavern. A series of girlish giggles follow. Beside me, Jax shifts his weight a little, and then his breath falls on my neck, his hand sliding away from my knee to the inside of my thigh.
My breath catches at once. “You just told me to keep watch,” I growl under my breath.
“Yes,” he breathes against me. “Do that.” His hand slides higher up my thigh just as his mouth closes on the skin below my ear, and fire spreads through my veins. Truthbringers could flood the street, and I’d sit right here, trapped by the feel of his hand. A low sound pulls free of my throat, and I reach up, catching another lock of his hair, giving it a harder tug this time.
