Once the wound is cleaned and bound again, I guide Vale to the small table. His body sinks heavily into the chair, pain etched across his face. His skin bears a wan cast that draws fresh worry out of me.
“You need rest to regain your strength. Better than the floor or this seat can offer.”
The tilt of his head concedes truth he cannot deny. I gesture to the broth waiting on the table. “Drink what you can. Then we’ll see if you can manage the bed.”
Looking around as though reacquainting himself with the space, his gaze settles, certainty flickering in his expression. He has known Eryndor—and this place—well.
Chapter Five
The weight of him presses into me as I guide him to the bedchamber—power and muscle made fragile by pain. Together we manage the short distance, his pride heavier than his body. I ease him down, lift his legs, tug off his boots, and pull the blanket over him.
“It’s not in my nature to let someone tend to me so,” he murmurs, voice still resonant even in defeat. “I must truly be battered.”
I smile faintly at the humor, adjusting his pillow, though every fracture in his composure reveals pain. I find myself more concerned with his comfort and mending than with the fact that a stranger lies in the bed I’ve called my own these months. I look anywhere but at him, the nearness disarming, and withdraw from the room.
“Rest now. I have things to tend to. I’ll check on you soon.” My hand lingers at the threshold, aching to stay, before I force myself to turn away. Was it concern that held me there, or something else? Thoughts I dare not linger on.
Standing at the center of the main room, I take stock of what needs doing. The stillness is a marked contrast to the triage of his arrival. The cottage is small, but to me it is abundance. Even leaving the harshness ofwinter behind, there is much to do. Tonight, though, only the essentials: water, fire, food.
I fetch two buckets and step into the dusk. The evening air prickles against my skin; I don’t bother with my cloak for so quick a task. The rain barrels are low, but I know that will soon rectify itself. Brushing aside leaves, I lift the cistern’s lid and lower each bucket into the dark pool. Grateful I haven’t stopped to face the shift I noticed behind my eyes, my reflection ripples then vanishes. The frigid wetness of the damp rope stings my hands.
I carry the first bucket to the trough outside. By the time I return with a bundle of hay, the stallion has raised his head, water trailing from his muzzle. He presses into my hand when I stroke his mane, the warmth of him grounding me. “Good evening, friend,” I murmur to soothe us both. I give one last pat before I leave him to his rest.
Inside, I set the other bucket by the hearth and coax the fire higher. I peer into the dim bedchamber to check once on Vale, lingering just within the doorway, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest until my fear eases. I light the lantern before leaving him to the dark.
Back in the main room, the fire glows gentle. Hunger gnaws at me as I fix a modest plate; I’ve had little more than broth for some time now. The first quiet bite in what feels like an eternity makes the fatigue crash through me. When I finish, I rinse the dish and wring out the rags I left soaking. They hang limp above the hearth, stained with the faint rust of blood, swaying like withered herbs. How close had he truly been to death’s door? A shiver runs through me despite the warmth.
When at last I step back into the bedchamber, his eyes are open.
“You look as though you’ve been to war,” he says, then softens. “I can see how weary you are. You need rest as much as I.” There is a gentleness in the command despite the rasp in his voice.
I hurry forward as he tries to push himself up. “Are you mad? You’ll tear those stitches—lie back. I’ve kept you from bleeding out once already; don’t make me do it again!” He relents, though the conflict in his gaze is plain. He catches my hand as I move to pull the blanket over him, stopping me mid-movement.
“You need rest,” he insists, his grip both gentle and strained. I still him in kind when I feel him start to move again. “And I should standguard. We do not know what threats may linger. I could take the chair by the hearth, keep watch.” His stubbornness strikes against my own in a way that only makes me dig my heels in more.
I shake my head as I turn away. “You can scarcely stand. You’d collapse before any intruder.”
His gaze steadies me when I look back, even through his pain. “Then stay here,” he says, the words reaching farther than any hand might. “Where I can see you. Where I know you’re safe. That alone will give me peace.” The soft surrender and gentle plea in his voice pull at something inside me. If this is the only way to get him to rest, I consider conceding.
“I’ll take the chair,” I try weakly. “You’ll have the bed.”
“Mira.” His voice deepens, a command wrapped in care. “I would find no rest knowing you sat in vigil while I lay in comfort. Only if you lie beside me will my body believe it is safe enough to heal.”
A stalemate between two willful, tired souls. He strains to tug down the far edge of the blanket in silent offering—and command.
Reluctantly, I cross to the other side of the bed and lower myself onto it, exhaustion pulling me down at once.
A low chuckle catches me off guard. “You’ll have yourself falling to the floor the way you cling to the edge like that.”
It’s true—I’ve left as wide a distance as I can manage. I’ve already been nearer to him than I have been to another in ages, and only out of necessity.
“In my state,” he adds, lips quirking, “I am hardly a threat to your virtue. And even if I weren’t—” His gaze holds me, steady and unyielding. “I am a man of honor. Rest easy in that.”
With a sigh, I allow myself to sink closer, though a breadth still separates us. The weight of him across the mattress is enough to anchor me. I lie flat, staring at the ceiling, blanket clutched to my chest, until my eyes—heavy from near two days without sleep—surrender at last.
The first thing I feel is warmth. Not the heat of the fire—now only banked embers—but a deeper warmth that holds me close. My cheek rests against something solid, steady, rising and falling with breath. Safety wraps around me like a second blanket.
My eyes flutter open. For a heartbeat, I bask in it—then still. I am not alone. The arm curved around me is not my own.
