Don’t ask him to stay. Don’t ask him, Eury.
It was a terrible idea. I had learned too much, felt too much; out of that dungeon, I was raw as a split fruit under sunlight.
And yet.
Behind me, soft footsteps sounded. Dorian entered, a bundle in his arms. Mosscloth towels. He set them beside the tub without looking at me. “Take as long as you need.” He hesitated, then turned to go.
“Wait.”
He paused, his back to me. He wore only a loose white shirt and dark pants,clothing I’d never seen on him. Sleepwear, maybe. He looked softer in it. Unguarded.
My heart thudded. “Stay.”
He remained where he stood, unmoving. For a breath, I thought he would keep walking. Then he turned. His eyes dragged over the tub and up to me. “Eury…”
“I want you to stay.”
I knew I smelled terrible and looked worse. I didn’t care.
His gaze lifted, rising up my body until he reached my face. He looked haunted, like shadows I couldn’t see hovered all around me. I couldn’t read what weighed on him. Perhaps it was the pain of knowing I’d never escaped Sylvanwild.
His voice was quiet. “I?—”
Now, or never. “I’m injured. I need help out of these clothes.”
He breathed in deep, nostrils flaring. He held still, as though fighting some internal tide. Then he stepped toward me, and my chin lifted as he came face-to-face with me. That was when I saw it, his eyes darkening, pupils widening with desire.
He wants this as much as you do.
It was the first time I’d felt power over him. Real power, like I could send him to his knees—and he’d thank me for doing so.
He reached for the clasp of my cloak, his fingers moving with deliberate care as he unbound it. The cloak slid from my shoulders and fell to the floor in a whisper of heavy fabric.
I stood in my torn, dirt-encrusted leathers, eyes fixed on him. His gaze went straight to the wound I’d taken from Faun’s sword. He stilled, brow lowering. “Has no one treated this since that night?”
I had almost forgotten about it. The pain had disappeared when I’d stepped into his bedchamber—but I hadn’t tried touching it, either. “My options in the dungeon were limited.”
He growled and his hands left me. “Fucking Rhiannon.” He strode past me and into the adjoining room. And just like that, the tension shifted into a familiar place—pragmatism.
Ilistened to him pass through his bedchamber and into the other room. Distantly, glass clinked.
He was avoiding me, even as he desired me.
When he returned, he held a leather wrap in one hand and a wooden chair in the other. He’d pulled his hair back in a tie. He set the chair down and unrolled the wrap across the vanity table along the far wall, revealing an assortment of vials and tools. “Come here,” he said without looking at me; his attention was fully on the kit laid out before him.
This wasn’t how I’d intended things to happen. But as I stood there, the pain in my shoulder seemed to become aware of itself.
I stepped over to him. “Are you the court’s healer as well?”
“All Sylvanwild fae are trained in basic medicine.” He picked out a vial and a set of tweezers. “It’s part of our childhood as much as fletching an arrow.” He turned toward me and nodded to the chair. “Sit. Show me the wound.”
I sat and began untying my jerkin with my good hand. He waited, though his fingers twitched at his side. But he didn’t move until I’d pressed my jerkin and torn undershirt off my left shoulder. I gritted as they slid over the wound.
He stepped up to me and handed me the vial. “Drink.”
I took it, but didn’t open the stopper. Inside, the liquid was thin and clear. “What is it?”
“It’ll dull the pain.”
