A knock comes just seconds after that thought, and I groan in relief. I can’t shout for Sybil to come in without waking the babies, so I wiggle out of bed and stand. The second I’m upright, I sway like I’m at my drunkest after too many mugs of dragon’s brew. My low-necked nightgown practically falls off me, but it’s only Sybil, so I don’t reach for a robe. I was too hot anyway, and the smack of cool air feels good.
I stumble toward my door, the cold stones under my bare feet wicking away my heat in seconds. Fyrestar warbles a worried sound from the foot of the bed. I try to smile at him over my shoulder, but it must be more of a grimace. He doesn’t look convinced.
Tugging at my drooping shoulder strap, I revise my earlier thought about only Kellan having seen me naked. Romantically, that’s true. But as my healer, Sybil has the fun task of cutting me out of bloody clothes, cleaning me up, and getting me into a fresh nightgown to recover in. I’m usually unaware of the process. Before her, Everly did the same.
I blink as I reach for the door, the split second of darkness revealing Sybil’s snow-white hair, parchment-thin, age-speckled skin, and milky, unseeing eyes as blindness makes her last years more difficult. I angrily shove the future aside and yank open the door with the violence of grief already inside me.
I gape in shock. Bale is on the other side.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
BALE
I nearly crush the bowl of soup in my hand as I stare at a half-dressed Idallia, my inner heat blazing to life. My mouth goes dry. Great fucking stars. She’s magnificent.
She stares back at me, her golden eyes round with surprise. She pulls up the little strap falling down her shoulder. The second she lets go, it falls down again. That strap sliding down her smooth skin holds my absolute focus. I want to bite it in half and replace everything she’s wearing with me.
“I thought you were Sybil.” My gaze snaps back up at her words. She seems out of breath and unsteady on her feet.
“Sorry to disappoint. I brought your soup.” I hold out the miraculously still-intact bowl, hoping she doesn’t notice the fire-scorched rasp in my voice.
Taking it, she cradles it against her chest. She visibly shivers, and the dark peaks of her nipples press against her white nightgown. I stifle a groan and focus on her face. What I see sobers me. She’s gaunt and pale, and the dragon in me howls to pick her up and warm her against me, getting her bare feet off this cold floor for once.
“No, I’m glad you did. Thank you.” Her gaze warms, a smile touching her lips. “It’s a long climb up the stairs for Sybil. Now she can just go back to her quarters and rest.” Idallia steps back, inviting me in.
I stay where I am. Sparing Sybil the climb to the Elite Wing quarters did factor into my decision to carry up the soup. But was it the only reason? My gut knows the truth, and I try never to lie to myself. That seems like a fool’s way out.
Idallia’s other shoulder strap slides down, and I track the narrow strip of material like prey.
She blushes, seeming to realize the bowl of soup crushed to her chest is the only thing holding her nightgown up. Turning, she walks across the room to the chairs near her bedside, the very last of the day’s sunlight illuminating her curving silhouette through the thin white gown.
Riveted, I hover in the doorway. I know her shape already—combat clothes aren’t exactly loose—but seeing her like this is something I try not to even let myself imagine. There’s too much history between us that she isn’t aware of.
I shouldn’t be here. I probably wouldn’t be if I hadn’t let myself believe in the desire spilling off her in waves before everything blew up in Porthwood. Thinking she might actually want me as much as I want her is clouding my decisions.
I force myself back a step, the chilly dimness of the mountain corridor helping to slap some sense into me.
Idallia sets her dinner on her night table, then reaches for the thick robe draped over her bed frame. She pulls it tightly around herself, belts it, and then sits awkwardly, the teetering drop into the chair seeming to startle her as much as it does me.
Concerned, I step back into the room. “That bad?” I ask, my feeble resolve to leave dissipating like smoke on the wind as the door snicks shut behind me.
She groans, tilting her head back against the chair and closing her eyes. “Worse.”
Two sets of round bite wounds on her neck glare at me accusingly. If she knew who she was—what—maybe she could’ve avoided that. Maybe she’d have known what she was up against.
It feels too forward to sit with her, so I move toward her open window and look down at Drayke as dusk colors settle over the capital of Torridaig. Lights already twinkle in the sprawling city nestled in the valley below, its serpentine shape following the river cutting through the central mountains. Steep hillsides rise on all sides, the dark pines almost black, and the granite cliffs sheer and imposing. Upper Drayke Lake shines like a polished sword on a plateau above the city. The towers of the military school rise in the distance beyond that, hundreds of dormitory windows reflecting the orange light of the setting sun. Idallia hated it there, and I think her pain goes far beyond the incidents I know about.
I turn back to her, a woodsmoke-scented breeze whispering over me from behind. “Things got out of hand near Draywood.” I clear my throat. If that’s my apology, it needs work. “I’m sorry I asked Fyrestar to leave you.”
Her eyes widen, and she tugs at her robe. “I’m sorry too. But I understand why you did it. He’s the fastest.”
“It broke your rhythm.”
Shrugging, she glances down. “A lot of things break my rhythm.” Her eyes abruptly lift again, and she throws me a cutting look. “Do better, right?”
Regret sinks through me. I wish I’d never uttered those words. “You’re already one of the best.”
Her expression sours. “Maia beats me all the time.”
