He turned toward me fully. In this light, in this small space, his eyes on me were dark and luminous at once. He knew what I meant.
"Neither could I. So I guess we’re both to blame."
Silence fell, and the two of us gazed at one another. Once again, he had carried me through danger. This time literally. And once we’d stepped inside this place, his first instinct had been to set his hand over my wrist, to comfort me. Even though he had been afraid, too.
I could not summon the voice inside me that guarded me from him. It was the amnesia of the trials: outside them, we were enemies; inside them, we were something else. Partners, I thought.
But right now his gaze felt laden. Intense.
I didn’t know what to do with that intensity.
My bow pressing painfully into my back gave me an excuse. I broke the stare to unsling it and unclasp my cloak. Relief came with the motion, as if steel and leather could shield me.
"Youarecut." Dorian’s footsteps neared, and the scent of him filled my nose as he stood over me. His fingers touched my forehead near my hairline. "Here."
My body tensed. My insides twisted, unbidden. It was like a chord had been strummed inside me, and I hated how aware of him I was—his nearness, his warmth.
It wasn’t desire, exactly. It was memory, need, survival. That’s all. Wasn’t it?
He removed something from his jerkin and dabbed it to my forehead. I winced, suddenly aware of the sting, but I didn’t move.
I closed my eyes and swallowed. I had to remember all the reasons I hated him. He had attacked me, kidnapped me, dragged me into this nightmare.
"Will it need stitches?" I asked.
“No.” He dabbed again. His touch was steady, gentle. “It’s hardly bleeding.”
It was nothing. A small wound from a branch, probably. But to him, it was worth tending.
That thought made me look. I lifted my face, and the fae above me paused, cloth in hand. In this light, he didn’t look like a villain. He looked like someone I might have known before my world ended. Someone I might have liked.
“You should sleep,” he murmured, eyes on my forehead. “You can have the bed there.”
Sleep, yes. He was right. My body begged for it.
I stood, shrugging off the pull of exhaustion. My head barely reached his sternum. I breathed fast without meaning to. Somewhere deep in me, my body craved what it recognized: strength, safety, care.
I met his eyes. “Thank you.”
He stood very still, tension radiating from him, then nodded and stepped aside for me to pass. When I stepped by him, I noticed one thing in my periphery?—
His hands, still holding the bloody cloth, curled tight before relaxing.
It was the first time I’d considered how very, very much he heldinside him. Tight, bound up, as though every word that escaped was dangerous.
And the more he held in, the more I did, too.
So the moment passed, as ephemeral as a soap bubble. Neither of us said a word into it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
I layon the bed’s padding, my cloak over me. Dorian busied himself in the other room, his back to me. I couldn’t see his face as he said, “Sleep while you can. I’ll keep a watch.”
"Right," I said, too fast, too flat.
We were back to who we’d been. That moment between us had been nothing, an anomaly. It was better this way.
So why couldn’t I close my eyes?
