I take him in. The strange tint of his skin, the blueish shadows beneath his eyes, the slight hollowness in their sockets. For a god, he looks pretty mortal today. Fragile, even.
When he shifts his weight under my scrutiny and returns his attention to whatever lies behind the curtain, I only watch him harder. “Are you sulking because of the wish?”
“I am not sulking.”
The carriage rocks over a rut, jolting his shoulder against the frame. His hand flies to his chest, fingers splaying against the black wool coat that covers his sternum. For a breath, I catch the faintest hitch in his inhale—like a man pretending he’s not hurt.
“Why are you holding yourself like that?”
He doesn’t blink. “Like what?”
“Like you’ve got a thorn stuck in your ribs.” A knot forms in my stomach, tightening there. “Is it…is it because I touched your heart? Did I hurt it?”
“You did not…hurt it,” he grits out, his voice strained and thin. “The liberty you took that night warrants another spanking to be certain—oh, if only my wife wasn’t so fond of them.” Vale exhales through his nose, controlled. “I’m simply exhausted. It is thetediousnessof this travesty.”
A sinking sensation caves in my chest. I chose the wrong wish, didn’t I? I had wanted to show him my acceptance, to bring us closer. Instead, he feels worlds away.
Abrasive. Cold.
We travel for minutes without a word. The wheels grind over wet stone. The driver clucks and curses the road under his breath. The silence becomes a third passenger, heavy and unpleasant.
Until the carriage lurches, frame groaning under the strain of the sudden wobble. Vale groans, too, his entire body seizing up as his fingers dig into the wool around his chest like a dagger just stabbed into it.
That does it.
“You look like you’re about to faint!” A stumbling step brings me to his side, the leather creaking beneath me on the bench when I sit and reach for his chest. “Let me?—”
“Don’t,” he snaps, pressing himself into the corner. “I do not want your care.”
“And I don’t want to look at your sulky face for the rest of the day,” I spit back before I settle my fingers beside his, the tension in the muscle beneath as severe as that of stone. “Just let me touch.”
“I don’t want your touch, either.” His jaw works. His gaze slides away to the curtain and the narrow slit of light, as if he’s searching for dignity in fabric.
“I need your hands on me,” I mock in a high-pitched voice, words he once spoke in the tower. Then I dig my thumb into his chest, rubbing the muscle, fingers working with practiced efficiency. “What did you do? Did you sleep wrong?” A moment’s hesitation. “Do you even sleep?”
He lets out a noise, half groan, half growl, but his hand lowers a fraction, reluctantly conceding space. “Perhaps I would,” he grinds out, “if you’d only take arealhusband, love him, and slit his throat.”
“Oh, you’re as real as they get.” The bite in my tone is easier than admitting the worry nibbling at my ribs. I shouldn’t have touched his heart… “Is it your heartstring?” I slide my fingers closer to his sternum, feeling the rigid hardness there, the way his body has been bracing around something he refuses to name. “Here?”
“Yes.” The word lands rough, tired. “Mmm...”
Beneath my fingertips, his heartbeat stutters—three uneven knocks, a pause that makes my pulse jump, then a return that’s stronger, cleaner, as if whatever was choking the rhythm untangled itself. The tension eases some.
“Better?” I ask quietly.
For a beat, he doesn’t answer. He simply sits there, breathing shallowly through his nose, eyes fixed on some point beyond the curtain slit, as if staring hard enough might dissolve the question.
“I…” His throat works, the word caught like a splinter. He swallows it down, jaw tightening, then forces the answer out in a voice that is quieter than I’ve ever heard from him. “I fear so.”
His hand slides back up to his chest. Not to push me away.
His palm settles over mine just as his head lolls back against the carriage wall. When he turns to look at me, the green of his eyes has gone darker—less moss, more stormwater—caught between relief and something I can’t name.
“I shouldn’t have reached into your chest that night, hmm?” My admission is a little above a whisper, tasting foreign on my tongue. “I’m…I’m sorry.”
He arches a brow. “Pardon me?”
“I won’t repeat it,” I say, and it’s enough to bring a small but sincere smile to his mouth. “If you didn’t catch it, all the better.”
