DID WE WIN?he croaks. Astrid laughs through her sobs as she lifts him up and pulls him to her.
OW. BE CAREFUL, WITCH. IHAVE JUST HAD MY ORGANS OBLITERATED.
“Do notever”—she flicks his nose—“joke about that. Ever.” She hugs him more gently this time, feels the tether, which is usually just background noise, ring out in response to the touch. “I thought I’d lost you.”
He purrs.
There’s athud, and she twists toward the sound. Zryan’s pulled the mask from the dead man, the lolling head dropping back to the floor.
“I thought you’d gone after the other one.”
“He was already at the walls and I didn’t want to leave you to deal with this”—he gestures at the body—“alone.”
Astrid turns on the lamp and stares at the dead man; she feels nothing, not even revulsion at the grotesque wound. The head is barely attached to the body. He deserved it, deserved to die like that.
Before she registers what she’s doing, she’s rushing to the prince, reaching up on her tiptoes and flinging her arms around his neck.
“Thank you,” she murmurs into his neck. “Thank you for saving him.” Zyran had gone to Bastet when he heard her call his name. Had put himself in harm’s way to save her familiar. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” She can’t stop saying it.
He goes taut under her touch, his body hard and unyielding, and she’s hyperaware of the hammer of his heart against her chest; but after a moment, his body begins to melt against hers. He wraps an arm around her waist, sliding the other across her back, his hand coming up to gently grasp the nape of her neck. She keeps whispering thank-yousas he lowers his face to her hair. He says nothing, only takes a deep breath, and suddenly she’s all too aware of how close they are, how little she’s wearing. Aware of that hand spread across the bare skin of her lower back. Her pulse beats erratically as they stand there, clinging to each other, Astrid’s nose full of that scent of him, of wild seas and mountain storms.
She needs to let go.
Finally, she lowers her arms, but he keeps his hands on her waist.
“Are you hurt?” His words are sharp but his touch is delicate as he traces the hem of her blood-soaked top. “Can I check?”
“It’s not my blood. I’ve only a few bruises, nothing serious,” she says, and there’s no mistaking his exhale of relief. Is he genuinely that worried about her? No, it must be for Skylar. Stars, what will Skylar think—did she feel this? “I’ve a healing solution I can take.”
He nods at Bastet. “So I noticed. Your mastery extends beyond potions that would lead to a horrific death. I’m impressed.” He should be. She’s never met another witch or witchkin who can brew a healing solution so powerful. Apart from Gram, that is, who taught her in the first place.
She pulls away and he lets go of her this time, slipping his hands into his pockets.
She wipes her mouth. “I need water. He tasted unbelievably disgusting.”
The prince tips his head back and laughs, full and throaty, and, Stars, if Astrid doesn’t want to bottle it, pour it in her bathtub, and bathe in it.
No.No she doesn’t want to do that. What is wrong with her? She must have hit her head harder than she thought. Zryan saved her life, yes, but he’s still… Prince Zryan. PrinceI need you to dieZryan.
“Why don’t you sit and I’ll get you that glass of water.” He gestures to the bed and they both look at it. Bastet, eyes half closed, is still lying on the pillow, the only part of the bed seemingly intact or not covered in arterial spray. The sight of all that blood makes her lightheaded, and she sways a little. Zryan’s beside her immediately, slipping an arm around her and leading her instead to a sofa on the opposite side of the room. “I’ll grab that solution, too.”
She wants to ask him why he’s being so considerate, but her head is really starting to throb now. He comes back from the bathroom with a damp cloth, some water, and her Brewer’s Belt. He kneels in front of her, placing the glass of water on the floor, and offers her the cloth and her vials. She takes the healing solution out of her belt first, then washes the blood from her face, neck, chest, and hands, while Zryan watches her. When she’s done, he takes the cloth.
“May I?” he asks, and Astrid hesitates before nodding. “You missed a bit.” Slowly, he brings it to her chin, dabbing gently, then brushes it across her bottom lip, his focus wholly on her mouth. She swallows. Can’t help it when her tongue flicks out to lick her lips.
His pupils blow wide and he drops his hand.
“There,” he says, voice hoarse, dragging his gaze from her mouth to her eyes. “Flawless once more.”
Her insides writhe. Why is she reacting like this? Head trauma, she reminds herself. She’s literally had the sense knocked out of her. “Thank you,” she says again, the intensity of his gaze flustering her.
“You don’t have to keep thanking me.” He stands, towering over her, before turning to the body. He approaches it, avoiding the blood that’s pooled around the ragged neck. “One dead, the other I’m pretty sure short a larynx and definitely short an eye, thanks to you.” If he wonders about her lack of casting, he doesn’t say anything. The taste of the man still lingers, so she picks up the glass of water and downs the whole thing.
“Did they say anything?” he asks.
“No, not a word.”
“Professionals,” Zryan says, contemplating the dead man.
