“I don’t need?—”
His finger came under my chin, lifting my face. His eyes were serious but soft. “You don’t need to pretend at strength with me. Not here.”
My chest filled with warmth. I hadn’t known how badly I wanted to hear that from him.
I nodded against his finger. He turned back to the vanity, and I unstoppered the vial and drank it in one go. The liquid was bitter and burned until the heat of it hit my belly and spread through me.
He accepted the empty vial from me and set it aside on the table.He flicked out a piece of mosscloth on the vanity beside him. “It works quick.” He circled behind me, brushing close, and his hand touched my waist. “Lift your arms.”
I did so, ignoring my shoulder’s protest. His hands swept up from my hips, gliding along my ribs as he pulled off my leathers. Free of them, I could breathe more fully. Like I could finally exit the second trial, the dungeon, that place of darkness.
Dorian tossed them into a corner. I stood only in my linen undershirt, my leather breeches, and boots.
He pulled out a stool and drew it up to me. He sat in front of me, so close I felt the heat of him like a second sun. He seemed to hesitate.
I met his eyes. “Do what you need to do.”
Something passed over his face—pain, maybe?—then the expression was gone. He lifted the tweezers and began unpacking the wound.
It hurt. Every fucking tweeze hurt.
I watched him as he worked, wanting to touch his severe face, wanting to smooth the hollows under his eyes with my thumb. But he was fully fixated.
He pulled a piece of the herb from my shoulder and set it aside on the mosscloth. It was almost black with my blood. “Faun did this?” he asked of the puncture.
Faun the servant. Faun the dervish. “She’s wasted scrubbing floors.”
He shook his head. “She was a noble until her father was disgraced, but she was never a noble girl. I expect she’d have been our queen if not for?—”
My gaze sharpened on him. “If not for what?”
He shook his head. “It’s not my story to share.”
Frustration pricked at me. I knew I couldn’t prod him into revealing a truth he’d already locked away. Instead, I said, “But she’s not like Rhiannon.”
He met my eyes and nodded once. Shared understanding passed between us. “No, she’s not.”
“When am I to see your queen?”
“Soon.” He breathed out through his nose. “She’ll bring you before her throne. Don’t pretend with her, either; she figured out long ago you were no rabbit.”
“Just be myself, then?”
His eyes met mine briefly and crinkled. “You’re not very good at being anything else.”
“And she allowed me to see you now. Why?”
He pulled out another piece of herb, and I flinched. “She doesn’t do anything without purpose.”
I waited for him to tell me what that purpose was. When he didn’t, I made a guess. “She wanted you to confirm I’m a changeling. She wanted you to tell me the history.”
He kept working. “Yes, but ask mewhyshe wants those things.”
“Why?”
His gaze flicked up to me, eyes narrowing. “The spirit of the court is bound most closely to the queen. It whispers each trial into her ear before the trial itself.”
He was telling me something without saying it outright.
