A dagger is embedded deep in the unlucky man’s chest, its simple black hilt the only thing visible. His white shirt is dyed with the deep red of death. His eyes are closed, skin clammy. I scramble over to him, ignoring the pain in my skull, and set my palms against his neck.
A loud shout disrupts my focus. On the other side of the hall, guards have restrained a struggling, seething man. His face is blotchy with anger, blond hair disheveled, as he shouts, “Tundrayni bitch! You killed my brother!”
The air around my husband crackles.
“Take him to the dungeon,” Zev growls, hands flexing at his sides.
More guards dart over, encircling us until we’re concealed by a muscled barrier of metal and leather.
“Is the princess hurt?” one of the men asks. Gregoran—one of my assigned guards.
“I’m fine.” I gesture to the servant, still lying motionless on the cold floor. “But I need to heal him. Zev, the dagger.”
My husband yanks the blade from the unconscious man’s chest, his other hand never leaving my lower back. I press my palms against the man’s neck, sensing. He’s lost a lot of blood, but the dagger missed his heart and lungs.
“What do you think you’re doing?” a cold voice drawls.
It’s Faramir, elbowing his way past the guards. Varad comes to stand beside him.
“Healing,” I say flatly.
“Look at her”—Faramir chuckles menacingly—“bleeding herself dry for a common. Tundraynis really are soft.”
Enough distractions.
I don’t bother responding. I carefully unbutton the man’s shirt and inspect his wound—it looks deep, but the edges are clean.
Faramirtsks. “Bad luck, baby brother. Your wife is undressing another man on your wedding night.”
Vaguely, I’m aware of Zev’s low growl answering Faramir, but I focus my attention on the servant, channeling my power into him and mending the deep gash until his chest is seamless.
It’s done.
I sit back on my heels, facing the other servants hovering nearby with worried expressions. “Can you take him to the Healing Chambers? He needs rest. Feed him well when he wakes.”
A quiet chorus of gratitude rings out as they carry him away. The remaining servants and guards observe me with wide eyes and parted lips, though they seem awestruck, not hateful.
Slowly, I scan the rest of the hall. The guards encircling us parted at some point, likely when Faramir burst through. It’s deathly quiet. Every eye is riveted to me. Again.
Their new princess, on her knees, covered in blood, healing a nonwielder.
I glance at Zev but can’t decipher the emotions swirling in his eyes.
Worry? Anger? Pride?
“Take my wife to our chambers,” he finally says. He’s speaking to the guards, but his steely gaze never leaves mine. “And make sure she eats.”
Ten guards cluster around me until I can’t see past the line of leather.
They lead me from the hall.
To Zev’s chambers.
Chapter Thirty-One
Myhusband’schambersareexactly like him—rugged and masculine. And yet, something soft stirred in me when he called themourchambers, as if he’s determined to give me all of himself.
There’s no time to explore my new accommodations, though, because my handmaids herd me into the washroom, quickly peeling off my ruined gown. A bright red splotch smears my belly where blood seeped through the dress and coated my skin with the remnants of violence.
