Elara set the bowl down. “I can leave.”
“I won’t be long,” he said sharply, lighting the burner.
When she went back to whisking, he hated how still she became. No more dancing, no more singing. Not even a smile.
“I’m not good at this,” he blurted.
“Making tea?”
“No.” He motioned between them. “People. Conversing.”
“Really?” Her brows lifted. “You were such a delight in the carriage. And again, in your office.”
“I think we weren’t communicating like partners.”
“I agree.” She nodded. “Thank you for the apology.”
“Apology? I wasn’t apologizing.”
“Then what are you doing here?” She pressed her hip against thecounter. The folds of her robe shifted, revealing enough skin to dry out his mouth. And… was that a tattoo?
“It’s my home,” he snapped, “and I can go wherever I like.”
“Then I’m the intruder. Good night.”
She set the bowl down and made to move past him. Wrong. This was all wrong. He was meant to draw her in, bring her closer to his plans, not further away. How the hell was he supposed to make her stay?
“Wait.” He didn’t remember reaching out, but he was now holding her elbow, and she was frozen, staring at him with a mixture of surprise and fury. It had been since their first carriage ride that he’d touched her, and she was just as warm and soft as he remembered. He didn’t want to let go this time. “I… Fine. I’m sorry. I was an ass yesterday.”
Her expression flattened.
“And the days before,” he muttered. “I really was nervous.”
She studied him. “Chantal told me you’re Lafontaine’s apprentice. That must come with a lot of pressure.”
A spark of warning shot up his spine. “Chantal talks too much. But, yes. He saved me from the Restes, and I owe it to him to succeed.”
“I can understand that.”
It was the first agreement they’d been able to make, and Nik felt her soften beneath his touch. Slowly, he released her, letting his fingertips slide down the robe and dangerously close to her hand.
“Ow.” She withdrew, pulling her injured arm to her chest.
“Why didn’t you have the medics heal you?” he asked.
“I didn’t want to spend another minute there.”
“Fair.” He held up a finger. “One moment.”
He told himself not to run, at least not where she could hear him. As soon as he was up the stairs, he dashed to his office, retrieved his bag, and hurried back down in case she decided to fly away again.
She was still there, standing awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen.
“Please.” He motioned to the table at the window nook.
As soon as she sat, he pulled up a chair close enough that their knees brushed. It was nothing. He had to be able to thoroughly inspect and heal the wound.
The gash from the sword was deep but clean. This, at least, he could fix.
