With a sigh, Justus releases Dante’s hand and dips his fingers into the bath before wiping it on a handkerchief embroidered with an ‘R’. “I realize you may not want to hear it, but you should lower the dosage of—”
“I’ve not asked for your opinion now, Rossi, have I?”
Justus keeps wiping his fingers on his monogrammed kerchief, even though I suspect they’re dry. “Once Meriam awakens, I’ll ask her to heal you.”
“No.”
“She will not cast a spell, Maezza.”
Dante’s stern expression speaks volumes on what he thinks of Justus’s assurance. I suppose that if I were in his gaudy shoes, I, too, would be distressed by Meriam. She may have gone through with the blood-bind, but what would prevent her from reversing the spell she placed on his bloodline?
Great Cauldron, can that be done? Even though I’m champing at the bit to escape this prison, I realize the preciousness of my proximity to both Meriam and the Faerie King. He may not let her touch him, but he doesn’t fear my touch, for he isn’t aware I’ve been activated.
Although my hair drips water down my spine, and the air holds a biting chill, I no longer feel cold. “You fear her touch, yet let her perform the Shabbin blood-binding rites?”
“I don’t fear the witch; I distrust her. Like I distrust you.” Dante begins to roll his soiled bandage back around his hand but rips it away with a frustrated growl. “Rossi, go find me fresh gauze and a bottle of liquor.”
Liquor? Is he in so much pain that he’s turned to day drinking?
The corner of the general’s eye twitches at having been given such a base job. “May I assign the task to Brambilla so that I can help my granddaughter into her gown? There are many buttons to fasten.”
“I may be injured, Rossi, but I’m no gimp.”
The general stiffens. “Of course not, but you bleed.”
Dante clasps the wrist of his injured hand, cradling it in front of his gold armor. “Then get me a fucking healer!”
“I thought you said no one comes in or out—”
“Well, I’ve changed my mind! A healer will prove a good addition.” Dante’s incensed tone booms through the low-ceilinged chamber. “My grandfather’s stronghold has enough coops with cots to accommodate ten times the amount of men we’ve brought with us.”
I frown. “Justus is your grandfather?”
“What?”
“You said your grandfather’s stronghold . . .”
“I meant Costa.”
My eyebrows swoop high. The Rossi estate belonged to Costa Regio? I suppose most Fae have secondary homes, so having a secondary palace shouldn’t truly startle me. I wonder when it was paved in Crow-adverse stone? At its inception?
Dante slices the air with his injured hand. “What are you waiting for, Rossi? Get me a fucking healer, now!”
Justus’s jaw clenches so hard that I hear his molars click.
“I’ll help Fallon dress.” Dante tries to steal the puff of gold from my taut arms.
“Perhaps I’m overvaluing my skills, but I do believe I’m capable of strapping my own self into a dress.”
“Drop the towel, Fal. Let’s get this over with.”
Though I swallow hard, I don’t manage to displace my swelling anger, merely to grind it into a compact lump that irritates the lining of my throat.
If only I’d agreed to marry Lore the second he’d proposed.
If only I hadn’t desired to walk down the aisle surrounded by Nonna and my two mothers. Damn me and my silly romantic aspirations.
I don’t even care if Lore wanted to expedite our marriage in order to control my magic. All right, I do care, but just a little, because I’ve zero doubt that he would’ve given me back all I brought into our marriage tenfold. After all, Lorcan Ríhbiadh is generous to a fault.
