Harthon tipped me back, his free hand softly holding my chin, which was steadily falling toward my chest. I saw his face, then—a tight mosaic of concern, lines creasing his forehead as he quickly cataloged my injuries. Those lines deepened at what he found.
“Alive,” he answered, releasing my chin, which immediately fell.
I felt him shift, and then I was falling, but not really. His arm came beneath my knees and shoulders, and I found myself encased in the shelter of his hold, held tightly to his warm chest. I stared up at the gray skies again, but this time, a chiseled, whisker-covered jaw was within the view. I allowed myself a moment to appreciate it, then fell into a different place, only half aware of our movement.
“Get the healer to my rooms as fast as you can,” he demanded to someone, somewhere. “Cal, get…”
His words were lost to a dense fog, one I should have fought, but couldn’t.
That fog that only half-cleared when a voice ordered, “Etarla. Keep your eyes open.”
When I didn’t comply, I was jostled. Not roughly, but enough for my side to screech. “Hurts,” I mumbled, eyes still closed.
“I know, and I’m sorry. But you need to stay awake for me,carella,” he said, each word heavy with urgent concern.
I didn’t like Harthon so concerned, not when he was always in control. But I also understood why he was worried.
I wasn’t okay.
A thought came—a possibility that might soothe his distress. And I really wanted to soothe it. “Maybe…like themagvis…I also need to pass the route on to another person…before dying—”
“You’re not dying,” he growled.
“You could…be that person…if you let me—”
“Talking is good. Keep talking. But do not finish that sentence.”
Because if I died, there was a chance Iwouldn’tgive that path to another person, to him, and he would lose his way into the Domus.
“I get it,” I breathed tiredly.
“I have a feeling you don’t. At all.” His chest vibrated against my side as he spoke.
It was a soothing sensation.
“Stay with me.”
That murkiness solidified, becoming a lead weight, dragging me down, down, down.
Chapter 7
For twenty-two years, sleep had been a boring part of my daily routine. A necessity. Sometimes, it was marked with the memory of the night my parents were killed, but even that dream had repeated itself enough times to be inconsequential.
Now, sleep was no longer forgettable. Some slumbers had been spent with Harthon wrapped around me. Some had ended with me in the clutches of a newfound threat. One even resulted in me almost launching myself out of a tower window.
And others, like this one, were a desperately welcome reprieve from the pain and stress and exhaustion that awaited me on the other side of consciousness.
So even when I became aware of the blankets draped across my body, the smell of slow-burning wood, and the masculine, earthy scent surrounding me, I wished sleep would pull me back under. When I registered the throbbing pain in my forearm, side, and thigh, I only wished for more darkness. And when I heard Felda’s voice say, “She’s coming to,” I yearned for someone to just whack me in the head and knock me out.
The last thing I wanted was to deal with the old chambermaid’s surly attitude.
She didn’t care what I wanted, because she clucked and said, “Don’t go falling back asleep. Took you long enough to wake up.” A cold hand slid beneath my neck and lifted. “Drink.”
A hard rim was pressed to my mouth, and I had no choice but to obey. Warm, salty broth slid down my throat. I opened my eyes to see Felda’s age-wrinkled face and perpetual scowl above me.
Great.
Her frown eased. “There she is.” I must have still been recovering from blood loss, because she almost sounded relieved.
