“I will leave you here to your lessons,” I say, forcing my voice to stay even, unhurried. “The honor guard stays with you. They will not leave this tent. You will not, either. Not until I return.”
Delia looks up at me, amusement glinting in those warm dark eyes.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “I imagine it’ll take me a while to get through whatever Healer Withers has prepared for me.”
“Evonne,” the healer corrects mildly, lips twitching.
“Evonne,” Delia repeats with a grin. Then she looks back at me. “See? I’m going to be busy. Go do your world-saving stuff.”
I step closer anyway.
“Stay,” I insist quietly, letting the edge in my tone heat the air between us. “Until I return for you.”
Her smile softens. “Of course, I will.”
I should turn now.
I should go before I make a spectacle of myself in front of my people and my fellow Lords.
But then her small hand reaches for me, and I freeze in place.
“And Thorne?” she murmurs softly.
I nod. “Yes, Shula?”
“Be careful,” she says—and leans up on her toes to press a quick kiss to the corner of my mouth.
It is not nearly enough.
It is everything.
Fire roars through me at that brief contact, licking down my spine, curling around my ribs.
My hand lifts, almost of its own accord, to cradle the back of her head—but I stop myself.
Not here.
Not in front of everyone.
Instead, I bow.
Low.
Proper.
To my viyella.
A ripple goes through the Healer’s Pavilion—shock, curiosity, a little fear.
Grier ducks his head quickly, hiding his curiosity, his reaction.
That’s good. I will yet allow him to live.
The honor guard stares straight ahead, but I feel their surprise pulsing through the tent like another heartbeat.
Demon Lords do not bow.
But I do not care.
