Varek looked at her hand on his arm. At her face, blotched and swollen from crying. At her fingers digging into his skin.
He pulled her hand off his arm, and for one terrible moment she thought he was leaving anyway. Then he was on the bed, on his back, and his hands were hauling her on top of him.
"Ten minutes," he said. "Then I'm getting food whether you've let go of me or not."
Mab pressed her cheek to his chest and closed her eyes.
His heartbeat was slower than hers. Steadier. A drum beneath her ear that didn't rush or stutter, just kept its rhythm like it had never learned to panic. She matched her breathing to it without meaning to. In on the beat. Out on the next.
Her eyes drifted closed.
She never slept during the day. She hadn't napped since she was a child sick with fever and Hester had sat beside her cot through the night. Sleeping meant letting go, and letting go meant trusting, and she didn't know how to do that with anyone anymore.
But his hand was warm on her head, and his heartbeat was even beneath her ear.
Safe.
She was safe now.
Varek's hand stilled on her head. His breathing had slowed, deep and even, but she could feel the alertness in him. The way his body stayed ready even at rest, a predator's instinct that never fully switched off.
He was watching over her.
Mab slept.
Chapter 12
Mab slept longer than she meant to, not waking until the light through the window had gone gray with twilight.
The bed was empty beside her, and the sheets were cold. But the fire had been built up with fresh logs.
Mab sat up slowly. Her body protested the movement, muscles she hadn't known she possessed making themselves known with every movement. The bruises on her hips throbbed when she swung her legs over the edge of the mattress. Between her thighs, she was tender in a way that made her ears heat even though she was alone.
She found another nightgown in the wardrobe. This one was pale green silk, too tight across the bust and too short in the hem, but it covered her. She would need to retrieve her own clothes from the kitchen wing tomorrow. The thought of walking through the holding in borrowed silk made her skin prickle, but the alternative was staying naked, and she had already done enough of that today.
A knock at the door made her freeze with the laces half-tied.
"Mab?" Annie's voice, small and uncertain. "Varek said I should bring your dinner."
Mab crossed the room and opened the door.
Annie stood in the corridor holding a tray. She was wearing a dress that must have belonged to one of the household girls, clean and only slightly too large, and her hair had been brushed and braided. She looked better than Mab had ever seen her look, the perpetual redness around her eyes faded.
"Come in." Mab stepped back to let her pass. "You didn't have to carry that yourself."
"I wanted to." Annie set the tray on the small table by the window. The tray held bread, cheese, cold meat, and a small pot that steamed when Mab lifted the lid. Soup. Rich and dark, with chunks of root vegetables floating in the broth. "Drogga said you'd be hungry. He said—" She stopped. Her cheeks turned pink.
"What did he say?"
"Nothing."
Mab decided not to press. Whatever Drogga had said about why she'd be hungry, she didn't need to hear it repeated by a twelve-year-old.
She sat on the edge of the bed and gestured for Annie to join her. The girl perched beside her, feet dangling, watching Mab tear a piece of bread.
"How is Tibbs?"
Annie's face brightened. "He's been with the warriors all day. One of them is teaching him how to hold a sword properly. A real sword, not a kitchen knife." She bounced a little on the mattress. "He's terrible at it. Drogga says he holds it like he's trying to chop onions. But he's so happy, Mab. I've never seen him smile that much."
