Page 128 of Given to the Black King

“I know.”

“Sit down.”

“Iona—”

“Sit.”

The old blood hears the command before the king decides whether to obey.

He sits on the bench.

The wood creaks beneath him.

I begin with the buckles at his throat.

His hands close over mine.

“Tell me first.”

“No. You are bleeding on the floor.”

“It is not serious.”

“It is on my floor.”

“This is my chamber.”

“Not tonight.”

For one moment he looks startled.

Then his hands release mine.

I remove the armor piece by piece.

Breastplate. Shoulder guard. Bracers. The leather beneath. Each piece lands on the rug with a dull weight.

The man beneath is bruised from ribs to hip. One cut crosses his upper arm. Another opens the skin above his shoulder where the lance found the gap.

I clean that one first.

He holds still while I wash blood from the wound.

His claws slide out when the cloth presses too hard.

“Sorry.”

“Do not apologize.”

“Did that hurt?”

“Yes.”

“I am still apologizing.”

His mouth almost moves.

I rinse the cloth.