"Since dawn." My own voice comes out rougher than intended. Hoarse from humming, from worry, from three months of swallowing words I shouldn't say. "Fever came on fast. I've tried everything I know but nothing touches it."
He nods, already kneeling beside my chair. This close I can smell him—parchment and herbs and something clean like rain-washed stone. This close I can see the fine silver threading through his robes, the slight tremor in his elegant hands that suggests he's been working too long without rest.
This close I want things I have absolutely no right to want.
"Do you mind me healing her while you hold her?" He gestures toward Amisra, waiting for my permission even though he doesn't need it. Even though he outranks me in every possible way and could simply take her if he chose.
But he doesn't choose. He waits.
"Of course." I shift carefully, making it easier for him to examine her without disturbing her sleep. His fingers brush my arm during the transfer—accidental, meaningless—and heat flares across my skin that has nothing to do with Amisra's fever.
Stop it. Stop.
Valas presses his palm against her forehead, his other hand moving in precise gestures while he murmurs words I don't understand. Magic thrums through the air, making my teethache. Violet light blooms beneath his fingers, seeping into Amisra's skin like water into parched earth.
I watch, holding my breath. Watch his face tighten with concentration. Watch the way his jaw clenches when he encounters resistance. Watch him pour more power into the spell, relentless and determined and so clearly desperate to fix this.
The light intensifies. Amisra gasps softly, her small body going rigid for a heartbeat before melting boneless against my lap. The heat beneath her skin recedes like a wave pulling back from shore—gradually at first, then all at once.
Her breathing evens. Deepens. The flush draining from her cheeks, leaving her pale but peaceful.
The fever breaks.
Valas slumps slightly, his hand dropping. His breath comes hard, shoulders rising and falling while the magic dissipates around us. He looks wrung out. Hollowed. Like that spell took more from him than he could afford to give.
"Is she—" I start.
"She'll sleep now." He doesn't look at me, still focused on Amisra's face. "Properly sleep. The fever's gone. Just a common illness, nothing serious, but—" His voice cracks slightly. "She'll be fine."
Relief floods through me so intensely my eyes burn. She's not my child, but I care so much for the little girl. Every day I swear my heart breaks for her and I hated not being able to ease her pain today.
I blink hard against the sudden moisture, refusing to cry in front of him. "Thank you."
"Don't." The word comes sharp, almost harsh. Then he gentles, finally meeting my gaze. "Don't thank me for this. She's—" He stops. Swallows visibly. "You've been caring for her all day. Alone."
"It's my job."
"You look exhausted."
"I'm fine."
"Keira." My name in his mouth sounds different than when others say it. Softer. Like he's tasting something precious. "Let me help."
Before I can protest, he's sliding his arms beneath Amisra, lifting her with impossible care. She doesn't wake, just burrows against his chest with a contented sigh that makes my heart clench. He carries her to the bed, settling her among the pillows and pulling the covers up with such tenderness I have to look away.
This is dangerous. All of this—his kindness, his care, the way he treats me like I matter instead of like I'm just another servant. The way he's been here every other day for three months and never once made me feel less than. The way his eyes track me across rooms and his voice goes soft when he says my name and his presence makes me want to believe in impossible things.
I can't afford impossible things. Can't afford to trust this.
He straightens from the bed, turning to face me. We're alone now, Amisra sleeping soundly between us, rain still whispering against the windows. The afternoon light paints him in shades of gray and silver, all sharp edges and elegant lines and eyes that won't stop looking at me.
"I'll sit with her tonight." Not a question. A statement. "You need rest."
"I'm her nanny. This is my responsibility."
"You've been awake since dawn caring for a sick child. You're swaying on your feet." He moves closer, not touching but near enough that I can feel his warmth. Near enough to drown in. "Please. Let me do this."
"Why?" The question escapes before I can stop it. Raw and unguarded. "Why do you care?"
