His comforting hands grip my waist to steady me, his brows knitting tight as he looks me over with scrutinizing study. “That wraith still getting to you?”
“I just can’t shake it,” I reply, thinking about that infernal darkness, the oily, vile presence in the forest that haunts me when I try to sleep.
But the truth is that it’sallhaunting me. The killing, the labor of holding the construct in my mind, picturing Helena in the cage I made, the misery of my sister and Alexus against the bitter cold, even as I try to help them. I feel as evil as that godsdamn wraith.
And then there’s the prince. That shadowy menace floating through the construct.
He’s coming for my king, and with each passing hour, I grow more uncertain that I can stop him.
Softly, Colden trails his thumb underneath my eye, where a bruised half-moon no doubt sits. He looks little better. Neither one of us have slept more than a handful of hours over the last few days, walking around in a fog.
His midnight stare takes in my shaking hands, my quivering chin, and my sweat-dampened face, too. More narrowed study follows, as if he sees all the things I don’t want him to worry about.
He jerks his chin at the other witches. “Leave us, please, but send Rowena with damp cloths and fresh drinking water. Nephele isn’t well.”
Their chanting dies, and though each person glances at me withconcern, they file out of the room as told, closing the doors behind them.
With a cocked brow, Colden touches the back of his cool fingers to my forehead like my mother used to do. “Gods’ death, you’re burning up.”
“I’mfine, it’s from all the magick. It’ll pass now that I’m no longer maintaining the refuge.” I swipe my hand across my damp forehead and try my damnedest to stiffen my spine, but I’m suddenly incapable of remaining upright.
For a second, the world winks out, and I collapse against Colden’s strong body. As always, he’s there to catch me.
“Thisis the reason I’m still here and not in that forest.” He bends down and scoops me into his arms. “Someonehas to take care of you, because you bloody well won’t take care of yourself.”
I want to snap back with something sarcastic, but I don’t argue, especially when he lowers me to the settee in front of the hearth and aims a finger at the fire. Quickly, he smothers the low flames with a burst of frost that leaves a trail of ice crystals scattered across the fine rug.
Just as Colden tucks a small throw pillow behind my head and begins tugging off my boots, the door opens. Rowena hurries into the room with a silver bucket in one hand, and a carafe in the other.
She glances nervously between us, then around the room as a quick shiver visibly rocks through her. “Everything all right? Is she faint? How can I help?”
“She just overexerted herself and got a little fevered,” Colden says, taking the items from Rowena. “I can care for her, and I’ll carry her to bed later.” He shrugs. “It’s no different than when she used to stroll upstairs after too many hours of training and pass out by my door.” He leans close, eyes playful, something I’m glad to see. “Were you just trying to get into my pants?” he whispers.
Though it isn’t my best or brightest, I smile, which was his intention. “But of course.”
He winks and turns back to Rowena. “If you and the staff would make certain the other witches are feeling up to task, I would appreciate the help. Nephele needs their support with the construct right now.”
“Yes, Your Majesty, of course we will. Take care of our girl.” Rowena kisses me on the forehead and squeezes my arm before leaving the room.
Colden holds up the bucket and carafe with the delight of a child showing me their favorite playthings. The tips of his fingers grow white as snow, with tiny blue veins of light crackling underneath his ivory skin.
A soft frost spreads over the bucket’s metal exterior as condensation beads on the glass carafe. The room temperature cools, too, as if a northern wind blasted through an open window.
I smile at his magick and watch as he pours a now-cold glass of water, which I quickly drain. If only it could rinse away the foulness of these last several days from my mind.
Colden sits beside me and withdraws a damp cloth from the bucket, folds it in half, and lays it across my forehead. The linen isn’t frigid against my skin, only cool enough to provide respite from the heat coursing inside my body.
So much magick. Sometimes I feel like I might shatter into pure power.
With a practiced hand, he unbuttons my tunic down to my navel and spreads the fabric, baring my torso. I think to make light of the moment with sexual innuendo to make him laugh, because we both need levity right now. But he runs that cool cloth down my heated neck to my reddened chest, and all I can do is let out a long, breathy sigh of relief.
He drags the linen further down, over the slight swell of my breasts, careful to avoid my undergarment, before slipping the damp cloth across the flat of my abdomen, sending a chill racing along my fevered skin.
“Better now?” he asks.
“Muchbetter.
“I’m quite good at this.”
