A weak laugh bubbled out of her, causing pain to spiderweb through her skull. She winced.
He frowned as he looked her over. ‘How do you feel, Greta?’
She blinked in surprise. ‘You called me Greta.’
He canted his head. ‘Do you like that?’
A lot more than she should have. It felt closer, intimate somehow.
She nodded.
‘Then drink this, Greta.’ He grabbed a glass of water from the bedside locker and handed it to her. ‘My physician says you’re dehydrated.’
Her fingers trembled as she took the glass. He blanketed them with his own, steadying her hand as she drank. She watched him over the rim, neither one of them looking away.
She finished the water, feeling marginally better already. He set the glass aside and returned his attention to her injuries, gently cupping her jaw to move it side to side, grimacing at the patchwork of bruises he no doubt saw there.
‘Is it really that bad?’ she asked.
‘What I wouldn’t give to kill him all over again,’ he muttered. ‘Nice and slow and brutal.’
‘Please don’t ruin the moment.’
He arched a brow. ‘What moment?’
‘You. Being caring.’
‘I care very much for you, Greta,’ he murmured, his hand rising to stroke the scars on her cheek. ‘Can’t you feel it?’
She swallowed hard. There was so much she wanted to say to him, but she was afraid if she opened her mouth, every wayward, wanton feeling would come tumbling out, and she would scare him away. Ruin the moment and worse, destroy the bond they had come to share, a thing so rare and precious and lovely, she treasured it above everything else.
But it was killing her, this growing whirlpool of need. Desire overwhelmed her, and gripped in its heavy fog, she turned her face into the warmth of his palm and pressed a kiss there.
He stilled. ‘What was that for?’
‘Just a thank you,’ she whispered against his skin. ‘Thank you, Alarik.’
Her heart lurched as his hand slipped from her cheek, finding hers. He raised it to his lips, his gaze burning as he returned her kiss, brushing his lips against her knuckles. ‘You’re welcome, Greta.’
Her throat tightened, painfully. She was all too aware of every aching thud of her heart. She wanted to rip it out of her chest and give it to him. She turned away before she did something even more reckless, her gaze finding the book on his bedside table. It was a collection of poems about love and war.
‘You read poetry?’ she said, with some surprise.
‘Only when I want to bore myself to sleep.’ A smile ghosted across his lips. ‘My brother Ansel loved poetry. He used to say that it nurtured the heart.’
‘Does it?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said, in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘I think mine has to thaw first.’
‘Will you read some to me?’ The words flew from her lips before she could stop them.
He slanted his head. ‘Does your heart need soothing, wildling?’
‘I don’t know,’ she lied. ‘But my aching head could do with some tender words.’
He reached for the book, and she saw then that it was well-thumbed. ‘All right,’ he said, swinging his legs on to the bed, where they brushed against hers. ‘Your wish is my command.’
Greta lay back, his arm coming around her as she rested her head against his shoulder. She closed her eyes and smiled as the king read poem after poem to her, with the kind of skill and reverence that told her he knew every single one of them by heart.
