“Is not the topic of discussion at the moment,” she replied, finality ringing in her tone. Her gaze flicked to the bed. “Sit down. You can hardly stand, and I’d rather not haul you off the floor a second time.”
Pride flared in Finn’s chest, warring with the throbbing in his skull. Part of him wanted to argue, but his vision still blurred at the edges, and he feared losing what little dignity he had left. Reluctantly, he sank onto the bed. A faint wave of relief washed over him as the room stopped spinning.
Gwenna settled onto a nearby chair, angling it so she could keep a close eye on him. She shoved a bowl of stew toward him. “Eat,” she commanded, voice brisk. “We’ll deal with your bandage after you’ve got something in your stomach.”
Finn stared at the murky broth. His stomach growled despite his suspicion, but paranoia still whispered in his ear. Could she have poisoned it? He shot her a wary glance.
Gwenna’s eyes flashed with annoyance. “If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t have bothered patching you up. Now eat.”
She had a point. Finn’s stomach clenched hard enough to grind stone, a hollow ache radiating up his ribs. He snatched the spoon, wolfing down stew so fast the heat scorched his tongue—greasy rabbit, overcooked carrots turning his mouth to glue. He didn’t care. His hands shook as he scraped the bowl clean, the scrape-scrape-scrape of metal on clay echoing louder than his pride.
While he ate, Gwenna shifted her attention to the makeshift medical station she’d set up on the small side table. Clean bandages, a jar of pungent salve, and an assortment of cloth scraps were neatly laid out. Finn pretended not to watch too closely, but in truth, he couldn’t help comparing this confident, no-nonsense woman to the fairy-tale vision of a captive princess he’d carried in his head.
“Why are you here?” he blurted at last, setting aside the now-empty bowl. His stomach felt less hollow, but his mind still churned with questions. “If you’re not a prisoner, why stay in this tower?”
Gwenna’s hands froze, but then she resumed reorganizing the bandages. “It’s complicated,” she said softly, eyes downcast. “This place…it’s home now. It’s safe.”
Safe. The word rang oddly in Finn’s ears. He frowned. “Safe from what?”
Her eyes flicked up. For a split second, he saw it: pupils dilating like a spooked mare’s. Then gone. ”There are worse things in this world than dragons, Sir Finnian.”
He blinked. Sir Finnian. She used his name—and title—like she’d known it all along. “How do you?—”
“You talk in your sleep.” Gwenna cut in. “Now relax.”
He stiffened as her fingers brushed his scalp. The salve burned icy, then numbed. A strand of hair slipped over her shoulder, tickling his cheek. His jaw locked. Relaxing was a surrender.
“It’s healing well,” she observed, more to herself than to him. “The swelling’s gone down considerably.”
He scarcely heard her, lost in the rush of confusion swirling in his head. This woman—this princess? Tending my wounds? Nothing about this situation makes sense. His memories of the previous day blurred together—the dragon’s reluctance to fully fight, the unexpected care he’d received while half-conscious, and the presence of another figure…
A face. Golden-brown eyes. Cedric. The name fell from his lips before he realized he’d spoken it aloud.
Gwenna’s thumb pressed too hard on the bandage and Finn hissed. She offered no apology. “My brother,” she explained. “He’s the one who looked after you last night.”
Brother. Finn’s brow knit. A fleeting memory tugged at the edges of his mind: someone with concern etched into his expression, a soothing voice amid Finn’s pain. “I…I think I remember him.”
Gwenna nodded, stepping back once she’d finished re-bandaging his head. “You woke up for a moment,” she said, placing the salve aside. “He was worried the knock to your skull did more than just bruise you.”
Finn tried to recall more details—the quiet of night, the dance of lantern light, the gentle but firm touch of hands on his skin. His thoughts kept snagging on the idea that none of them acted like the villains—or victims—he’d expected. “Where is he now?”
“Out,” Gwenna answered, her tone vague. “He’s often away during the day.”
Finn couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but something felt guarded in her voice. A memory nudged him—there was a Prince Cedric once, rumored dead at the claws of the golden dragon. Could it really be…?
“Your brother,” he drawled, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. “He wouldn’t happen to be Prince Cedric Cleburne, would he? The one who was supposedly killed by the dragon?”
Gwenna’s expression shifted—a crack in the cool confidence she wore like armor. But then it was gone, smoothed into neutrality. “My brother is Cedric,” she said, too carefully. “As for whether he’s a prince…titles don’t mean much out here in the forest.”
Finn narrowed his eyes. “That’s not a no.”
She huffed, shoving a strand of auburn hair behind her ear. “It’s not a yes, either.”
The reality she refused to confirm left him reeling. If Prince Cedric was alive, and Gwenna too, that meant so much of what he’d been told back in Mirathen was wrong—or twisted. Protected by a dragon?
“What really happened?” he asked, voice dropping to a low intensity. “Why are you both here? What are you hiding from?”
Gwenna’s expression hardened. “That’s not a story I’m willing to share with someone who came here to kill my friend and drag me back to a life I left behind.”
