Page 27

My hand flies to the hilt of my dagger.

“I’ve got your dinner,” a muffled voice calls out.

Lyxander crosses the room, pulling the door open a few inches with his body angled to block the view inside. When he turns back, his arms are laden with a tray carrying bowls of steaming stew and cups of wine, and a wooden bucket brimming with water. He kicks the door shut, sets the items on the table, and pulls a cloth from the bucket.

“Your wound should be fine without stitches. But it needs to be cleaned.”

A chill crawls over my skin, icy fingers trailing down my spine as he takes a step toward me.

“I can do it myself,” I snap.

His hand tightens around the cloth briefly before he lets it fall back into the bucket. “Suit yourself.”

He moves over to the fireplace and gathers some of the chopped wood, then sets to work starting a fire.

I stare at his back a moment longer. “Don’t turn around.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Turning away, I pull off my tunic and grab the cloth, the cool water biting against my skin as I wring it out. The snap and crackle of the flames fills the otherwise silent room as I fumble, the awkward angle of the injury making the task harder. No matter how I twist my arm, I can’t reach the back.

I drop the cloth into the bucket, close my eyes, and breathe deeply.

“Lyxander…I need your help,” I say, loathing the words as they slip free, escaping before my pride can hold them back.

There’s a pause, then, “Are you covered?”

Snatching up my tunic, I pull it over my head, shove my right arm into its sleeve. I make sure the scar from Keres’s collar is concealed, then hug the fabric over my breasts. “Well enough.”

The creak of the floorboards heralds his approach. I don’t look at him as he stops beside me, but I can feel him there, close enough to send a shiver down my spine.

He reaches for the discarded cloth, and I steel myself, but as the rough fabric grazes the raw edges of my wound, I flinch. His hand stills immediately, hovering above my skin, then he slowly presses the cloth back again. The movements feel deliberate, a balance of swiftness and caution that manages to leave the air between us undisturbed. He retreats, and I glance over my shoulder as he withdraws a rolled bandage from his pack.

“We’ll need more supplies. And something for infection.” His sharp gaze lingers on me—a silent rebuke wrapped in inscrutable calm as he dresses the wound. I stifle a shiver at the chilling trace of his fingertips through the thin barrier of fabric.

After he steps away and turns around once more, I shove my tunic on the rest of the way, ignoring the quiet unease of his touch that burrows under my skin. I don’t dare examine the feeling too closely, afraid of the memories it might unearth from the dark corners of my mind where I’m desperately trying to keep them buried.

“Thank you,” I say, clearing my throat as the words emerge strained.

I grab the clay bowls that had been brought up, the rich aroma of the white bean stew and grilled lamb making my mouth water. I pass one to him, then sink onto the edge of the bed.

Lyxander drags a chair over to the fireplace, and it groans ominously beneath his weight. We eat in silence, the steady scrape of spoon against bowl the only sound breaking the quiet. When I’m finished eating, he takes the empty bowl from my hands and sets it down on the tray. But his gaze fixes on my hand.

“The ring.”

My mouth goes dry, the lingering taste of my dinner souring. I force myself to swallow. “What about it?”

He scratches his rough beard, as though lost in thought. His hand trails down, hovering over the base of his throat, where the collar hides beneath his cloak.

Guilt tightens its grip around my heart. But it eases as Lyxander jerks his chin toward my hand.

“It suppresses your magic.”

“Congratulations. You’ve mastered the art of observation.”

“Take it off.”

I scoff, wrapping my arms around myself. “No.”