“Good. Then be alive in the council chamber.”
I close my eyes. “I hate democracy.”
“This is not democracy,” she says. “This is triage with witnesses.”
That’s worse because it’s accurate.
Kavor’s hand rests open against my stomach. He doesn’t tighten it. Doesn’t keep me in place. Doesn’t even make the soft, low sound in his chest that means he wants to argue with the entire City until it learns manners.
He waits. A door. Always a door. I cover his hand with mine.
“We should go.”
“Yes.”
“You could sound less pleased.”
“I could.”
“You choose not to?”
“Yes.”
I smile despite myself. Then I move, and my ribs remind me romance does not undo blunt force trauma. Terrible design.
Kavor helps me dress without making it feel like help. That’s an art form in itself. He turns away when I need him to, steadies me when I ask, and doesn’t mention that I have to sit down twice while pulling my shirt on.
The bond hums between us. Warm. Steady. Not loud enough to drown me out.
I keep waiting for it to feel like a chain, but it doesn’t. It feels like a hand I can let go of and still know is there. That might be worse. No, better.
I’m going to have to learn better.
Merra waits outside with broth and a face like judgment carved into a small, furious cliff.
“You didn’t drink it,” she says.
“I was busy.”
Her eyes flick from me to Kavor. I refuse to blush on principle.
Kavor says, “She will drink it now.”
I look at him. He looks back. There’s no command in it. Just absolute certainty that I’m going to continue being alive and that broth is apparently part of his battle plan.
Annoying. Effective. I take the bowl.
Merra watches until I take the first sip.
The broth is warm. Salty. Better than it has any right to be. My stomach clenches around it like joy is suspicious. I keep drinking anyway. Kavor’s gaze softens.
I point the bowl at him. “Don’t look proud.”
“I am very proud.”
“Unacceptable.”
“Yes.”
