“And the servant? Is he all right?” My voice is too breathy, too low.
“Who wouldn’t be all right after you healed them?” He clasps my hand, tugging it away from my chest before running his thumb over my knuckles. “I checked on him after I finished in the dungeon. He was already awake. You’re unparalleled.” My cheeks warm.
“What happened in the dungeon?”
A beat.
“I questioned the man that attacked you.”
I worry my lower lip between my teeth. “Is he alive?”
“Barely.”
He presses his lips into a thin line, but there’s something unspoken in his gaze.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“My father and brother are … displeased that you healed a nonwielder in full view of the entire court. They suspect you might be a Rebellion-sympathizer.” He sighs, deep and long suffering. “I should’ve known they’d twist it into something ugly,” Zev mutters. “You saved a life—a nonwielder’s life—and that makes them uneasy.”
“But—but I have no ties to the rebels!” I exclaim, leaning up on my elbow.
“I know.” His tone is soft, placating. It unravels the knot of worry tightening in my throat. “We’ll figure this out, all right? I’ll protect you. From anything. Fromanyone.” He squeezes my hand as if to seal his promise.
With a heavy sigh and one more lingering glance steeped with intention, Zev flops onto his back.
“We should get ready.”
I arch a brow.
“We’re having breakfast with my father and Faramir.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Myheartbeatsinmy throat as we walk through the long halls. Can’t I just have one day where I’m not someone’s pawn?
Zev’s grip is steady on my lower back.
“You look beautiful,” he murmurs, molten gaze raking over me. My handmaids dressed me in an ice-blue gown, embroidered with gray lace over the bodice and hem. Zev’s eyes keep wandering—to the dark spill of loose curls over my shoulders, the curve in my waist where my dress flares, the dip in my collarbones where my mother’s necklace rests—as if he doesn’t realize he’s doing it.
His heated gaze warms my blood, but there are more pressing concerns.
“What if they ask me about the Rebellion? Or insult Tundrayn? Or my father. Should I be nice? Or be myself?” I crane my neck to look at him as we walk, a flurry of nerves tangling beneath my ribs.
He chuckles. “Always be yourself. But they won’t ask. I drilled it into them last night that I’ll be extremely … displeased if eitherof them is rude to you.” My heart softens at his admission. I can defend myself just fine, but there’s a quiet comfort in knowing he has my back. I shoot him a bright smile, one he returns in kind before it dims. “My brother will still find a way to be an ass, though. I’m sorry in advance.”
We arrive at the dining hall where Varad and Faramir are already seated at a large rectangular table, Varad at the head and Faramir to his immediate right. Zev takes the seat directly across from Faramir, pulling out a chair for me to sit beside him.
“Morning, brother.Sister,” Faramir greets. He wears a perpetual secretive grin, as if he’s the only one privy to a hilarious joke. “What an interesting evening! I hope your wedding night still lived up to expectations.”
A distant rumble of thunder.
I don’t even flinch—I was expecting it.
“Stop needling your brother, Faramir,” Varad says tiredly. Dark bags shadow his green eyes as he takes a deep swig of steaming black coffee.
“Itwasan interesting evening,” I say, lacing my hand with Zev’s. “One spent in the best of company.”
One corner of his mouth tips up as his gaze snaps to our joined hands.
