“You still owe me a kiss.”
“What?!” I sit up straighter. “You got your two. Three, even!”
He pulls a cloth from his coat and dabs it gently against my forehead. “You spoke when I told you not to. So, technically… you still owe me one.”
Fire burns in my veins. I feel like I’m boiling.
“But don’t worry,” he adds. “I’ll come collect it some other time. And since I saved your life, the way I see it… You now owe me a favor, too.”
Heat flushes my cheeks. Saints above, this man is insufferable. If he really thinks that after that little stunt he pulled in the library, I owe him another kiss—and now a favor—he’s not just cruel, he’s delusional.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, ready to throw a punch. “You arrogant—”
The nausea hits instantly.
He catches me as I lurch forward, holding a bucket steady while I retch. “Easy,” he murmurs, rubbing slow, soothing circles along my back.
“Bastard!” I croak between heaves.
He laughs. “I can honestly say, in six hundred years, no other woman has ever managed to insult me mid-vomit. Impressive.”
Looking up from the bucket, our eyes meet.
“I bet I’m also the first to break your nose, too,” I mutter.
He smirks.
“You know…” I point to his now perfectly straight nose. “I preferred it a little crooked.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Makes you look less like a”—my stomach twists again, and more black liquid spills from my mouth—“pompous”—another retch—“jerk,” I finish, breathless.
He chuckles. “Hurling while hurling insults is truly a talent. But you really should rest, my Fire.”
My Fire.How I hate that name. How I detest him calling mehis. But before I can protest, another wave of nausea hits.
“The venom hasn’t fully left your system yet,” the king continues. “It’ll take at least another hour, and the Trial is fast approaching.”
“Another hour?! Ugh, just kill me now.” I glance at the window. The sky already holds a trace of golden light, hinting at dusk’s arrival. The Trial is coming. There’s no way I’ll survive it like this.
Tears sting my eyes. I blink them back. I’m not ready.
Selene Fairchild—writer, dreamer, lover of stories—killed by a book. How painfully ironic.
As if sensing the spiral of my thoughts, he says gently, “Don’t worry. You’ll still heal up in time to get ready for the Trial; Marb here will make sure of that.”
I shake my head, doubting every word.
Once the worst has passed, he grabs a cloth and wipes my face clean, then gently eases me back against the pillows.
“Sleep, Fire.”
Chapter 16
Up Is Down?
Iwake again when the sun is low in the sky, threatening to dip below the horizon. The fever has broken. My limbs ache, but I can move. I quickly bathe and throw on a deep green tunic, too short to be modest, until I find brown leather pants folded neatly beside the hearth.Thank Rexen.I refuse to die in a dress.
