Текст книги "Between Tides & Thunder"

Автор книги: Lena Kazak

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

CHAPTER THIRTY

AS ZEV DISAPPEARS INTO the crowd, a large group of servants walks past, arms laden with trays stacked with empty plates.

There’s a loud shout behind me. I’ve barely turned—

The distinct whoosh of metal whistling through air.

An ear-splitting shatter as fine ceramic meets hard marble.

Something large barrels into me.

A sharp crack—my head slams into the floor.

A heavy weight bears down on my body, compressing my lungs.

I can’t breathe. I can’t move.

Something wet seeps through my gown, warm and thick.

“MAYAH!”

Screaming nobles. Low, frantic mutters and high-pitched wails.

“The princess!”

Frenzied sounds of thudding boots and clacking heels.

“Seize him!” Command steeped with manic rage.

My head throbs.

Chaos.

“Mayah!” Zev’s panicked voice echoes closer.

There’s someone lying atop me. Zev rolls him off with a low grunt.

My husband exhales a loud string of curses.

The front of my turquoise gown is drenched with bright, red blood.

“Mayah, fuck. Say something.” He’s kneeling beside me, fingers carefully pressing over my abdomen, coming back stained with gruesome red. His hands are steady, but he can’t conceal the storm in his eyes.

“It’s not mine,” I rasp, sitting up. The back of my head throbs like someone took an ice chisel to it. Zev narrows his eyes at me, but my focus is on the servant who collapsed on top of me, the man Zev rolled off.

The attacker’s aim was true. But the servant walked by at the right—or wrong—moment.

A dagger is embedded deep in the unlucky man’s chest, its simple black hilt the only thing visible. His white shirt is dyed with the deep red of death. His eyes are closed, skin clammy. I scramble over to him, ignoring the pain in my skull, and set my palms against his neck.

A loud shout disrupts my focus. On the other side of the hall, guards have restrained a struggling, seething man. His face is blotchy with anger, blond hair disheveled, as he shouts, “Tundrayni bitch! You killed my brother!”

The air around my husband crackles.

“Take him to the dungeon,” Zev growls, hands flexing at his sides.

More guards dart over, encircling us until we’re concealed by a muscled barrier of metal and leather.

“Is the princess hurt?” one of the men asks. Gregoran—one of my assigned guards.

“I’m fine.” I gesture to the servant, still lying motionless on the cold floor. “But I need to heal him. Zev, the dagger.”

My husband yanks the blade from the unconscious man’s chest, his other hand never leaving my lower back. I press my palms against the man’s neck, sensing. He’s lost a lot of blood, but the dagger missed his heart and lungs.

“What do you think you’re doing?” a cold voice drawls.

It’s Faramir, elbowing his way past the guards. Varad comes to stand beside him.

“Healing,” I say flatly.

“Look at her”—Faramir chuckles menacingly—“bleeding herself dry for a common. Tundraynis really are soft.”

Enough distractions.

I don’t bother responding. I carefully unbutton the man’s shirt and inspect his wound—it looks deep, but the edges are clean.

Faramir tsks. “Bad luck, baby brother. Your wife is undressing another man on your wedding night.”

Vaguely, I’m aware of Zev’s low growl answering Faramir, but I focus my attention on the servant, channeling my power into him and mending the deep gash until his chest is seamless.

It’s done.

I sit back on my heels, facing the other servants hovering nearby with worried expressions. “Can you take him to the Healing Chambers? He needs rest. Feed him well when he wakes.”

A quiet chorus of gratitude rings out as they carry him away. The remaining servants and guards observe me with wide eyes and parted lips, though they seem awestruck, not hateful.

Slowly, I scan the rest of the hall. The guards encircling us parted at some point, likely when Faramir burst through. It’s deathly quiet. Every eye is riveted to me. Again.

Their new princess, on her knees, covered in blood, healing a nonwielder.

I glance at Zev but can’t decipher the emotions swirling in his eyes.

Worry? Anger? Pride?

“Take my wife to our chambers,” he finally says. He’s speaking to the guards, but his steely gaze never leaves mine. “And make sure she eats.”

Ten guards cluster around me until I can’t see past the line of leather.

They lead me from the hall.

To Zev’s chambers.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

MY HUSBAND’S CHAMBERS ARE exactly like him—rugged and masculine. And yet, something soft stirred in me when he called them our chambers, as if he’s determined to give me all of himself.

There’s no time to explore my new accommodations, though, because my handmaids herd me into the washroom, quickly peeling off my ruined gown. A bright red splotch smears my belly where blood seeped through the dress and coated my skin with the remnants of violence.

The women gasp dramatically and usher me into the bath—blessed Tides, a short bath.

Afterward, they dress me in a sheer black nightgown that barely covers my ass. Whoever designed it seemingly forgot that clothes are meant to conceal the body.

“Can I have a different nightgown?” I ask before the handmaids scurry away, arms covering my breasts. “One that has more … everything?”

“Princess,” one of the older handmaids says gently, “this nightgown will please your husband.”

I was attacked tonight, a man nearly died, and their priority is ensuring I’m pleasing to my husband?

When he comes to your bed, just do as he says. It will be easier.

Parting words from a different handmaid flit through my mind.

A lifetime ago.

“Whatever I wear will be on the floor soon enough,” I lie, voice low. “So does it really matter?”

The handmaids titter, but one of them fetches me a nightgown that reaches my knees—and isn’t see-through.

After they file out, I explore my new chambers. A large bed, covered in red rose petals, dominates the back half of the room. The plush carpet is soft beneath my bare feet as I walk along the perimeter, fingers skimming the dark walls.

Halfway around the room, my fingers scrape against a small, raised ledge—insignificant, but still a deviation. Frowning, I peer at the wall when—

There’s a sharp rap on the door.

I jump back.

Zev wouldn’t knock on his own door, would he?

“I have your meal, Princess,” a muffled voice calls.

A servant enters, eyes downcast, setting a large tray on a small table before leaving.

There’s only one plate. I guess Zev won’t be joining me. I quickly eat the roasted chicken and heal the dull throb in the back of my skull.

Tundrayni bitch. The words pulse through my mind no matter how hard I try blocking them out. You killed my brother.

Who was that man? He risked his life to end mine. If I had to guess, my husband is spending his wedding night in the dungeon torturing the would-be assassin for information.

I eye the petal-laden bed. Fatigue weighs heavy on my eyelids. Would Zev be upset if he returned to his chambers and found his wife fast asleep?

My gut tells me no. Zev doesn’t expect me to lie with him—in that way—until I’m ready. If I’m ever ready. He told me as much yesterday. If he found me asleep, he’d drape a blanket over me, then chastise me in the morning for overexerting myself.

A small smile tugs at my lips. Rose petals scatter to the floor as I peel back the covers, revealing yet more petals strewn across the sheets in a velvety sea, and crawl into a bed that smells of smoke and pine.

The mattress dips beside me, and I shift slightly.

A mumbled groan.

A quiet laugh. “Sorry, baby. Go back to sleep.”

The cool press of rose petals against my bare shoulders, my legs.

Eyes closed, even in this floating state, I’m aware of him. His smoky scent surrounds me, and I breathe easier knowing he’s close.

But not close enough.

I reach out and find air instead of muscle, empty space where I want his body beside mine.

I want. I want. I want.

A hushed whimper.

A deep, pained sigh.

“You’ll be the death of me,” he murmurs, affection threading his deep voice. The bed shifts again. “Come here.”

Familiar warmth as muscled arms cocoon me, my nose pressing against a bare chest.

I never want to wake up. It’s safe to dream.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

A contented hum. Reverent lips brushing my forehead.

Mine.

Sunlight coaxes me awake as it filters through the large windows framing the bed. My arms are pinned to my sides, Zev’s strong embrace holding me captive.

He isn’t wearing a shirt. Tides, why isn’t he wearing a shirt?

Tanned skin everywhere I look.

A smattering of fine hair darkens the planes of his chest. I have the sudden urge to brush my lips over it, see if it’s as soft as it looks.

Heat coils low in my belly, spreading in a violent tide through my limbs, between my legs. My cheeks flush with damning color, and I burrow my face into his chest, unable to resist inhaling more of his familiar, soothing scent.

“Good morning, wife.” His voice is sinfully low, rough with sleep. I want his deep timbre against my ear, whispering all the things he’d do to me if I just ask.

Tides drag me into uncharted depths.

I need to get my raging desire under control. I may be his wife now, but nothing else has changed. I squirm out of his arms, throwing him what I hope is a baleful expression.

“You didn’t have to hold me in your arms like that.”

His lips quirk into a half smile.

Tides damn him. My glare is having no effect.

“No,” he says easily, lips still tipped up. “I didn’t have to.”

He watches me like I’ve already said yes to something I haven’t yet decided.

“What happened after I was sent to bed?” I can’t help the bite that seeps into my tone.

His lips press into a thin line, and a shadow darkens his face at the reminder of last night. “The guards interrogated the guests. It appears he was acting alone.”

“Who was he?” I pluck a rose petal from the bed, absently rubbing it between my fingers. Zev’s gaze darkens as he tracks the movement.

“A nonwielder from a noble family. His brother was a moderately powerful stormwielder. He was killed in battle a few months ago.” His eyes soften. “I’m sorry for what he said to you.” Zev pulls an errant rose petal tucked between the strands of my hair. His knuckles are bruised. I part my lips to ask about his injury, but the words vanish when he drags the petal in a feather-light path down my bare shoulder. Slow. Deliberate.

A shiver ripples down my spine, leaving my toes curled. I gather power in my palm, pressing it to his bruised knuckles, but the act is a distraction, flimsy armor against the desire in his eyes. When I’m finished, I fold my arms over my chest, as if that might conceal the storm of my body—the pebbling skin, my racing pulse.

Breathe, Mayah. Focus.

But focus is impossible when his stare is all heat and hunger, and I know one word from me and he’ll have me on my back.

I swallow hard.

“And the servant? Is he all right?” My voice is too breathy, too low.

“Who wouldn’t be all right after you healed them?” He clasps my hand, tugging it away from my chest before running his thumb over my knuckles. “I checked on him after I finished in the dungeon. He was already awake. You’re unparalleled.” My cheeks warm.

“What happened in the dungeon?”

A beat.

“I questioned the man that attacked you.”

I worry my lower lip between my teeth. “Is he alive?”

“Barely.”

He presses his lips into a thin line, but there’s something unspoken in his gaze.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

“My father and brother are … displeased that you healed a nonwielder in full view of the entire court. They suspect you might be a Rebellion-sympathizer.” He sighs, deep and long suffering. “I should’ve known they’d twist it into something ugly,” Zev mutters. “You saved a life—a nonwielder’s life—and that makes them uneasy.”

“But—but I have no ties to the rebels!” I exclaim, leaning up on my elbow.

“I know.” His tone is soft, placating. It unravels the knot of worry tightening in my throat. “We’ll figure this out, all right? I’ll protect you. From anything. From anyone.” He squeezes my hand as if to seal his promise.

With a heavy sigh and one more lingering glance steeped with intention, Zev flops onto his back.

“We should get ready.”

I arch a brow.

“We’re having breakfast with my father and Faramir.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

MY HEART BEATS IN my throat as we walk through the long halls. Can’t I just have one day where I’m not someone’s pawn?

Zev’s grip is steady on my lower back.

“You look beautiful,” he murmurs, molten gaze raking over me. My handmaids dressed me in an ice-blue gown, embroidered with gray lace over the bodice and hem. Zev’s eyes keep wandering—to the dark spill of loose curls over my shoulders, the curve in my waist where my dress flares, the dip in my collarbones where my mother’s necklace rests—as if he doesn’t realize he’s doing it.

His heated gaze warms my blood, but there are more pressing concerns.

“What if they ask me about the Rebellion? Or insult Tundrayn? Or my father. Should I be nice? Or be myself?” I crane my neck to look at him as we walk, a flurry of nerves tangling beneath my ribs.

He chuckles. “Always be yourself. But they won’t ask. I drilled it into them last night that I’ll be extremely … displeased if either of them is rude to you.” My heart softens at his admission. I can defend myself just fine, but there’s a quiet comfort in knowing he has my back. I shoot him a bright smile, one he returns in kind before it dims. “My brother will still find a way to be an ass, though. I’m sorry in advance.”

We arrive at the dining hall where Varad and Faramir are already seated at a large rectangular table, Varad at the head and Faramir to his immediate right. Zev takes the seat directly across from Faramir, pulling out a chair for me to sit beside him.

“Morning, brother. Sister,” Faramir greets. He wears a perpetual secretive grin, as if he’s the only one privy to a hilarious joke. “What an interesting evening! I hope your wedding night still lived up to expectations.”

A distant rumble of thunder.

I don’t even flinch—I was expecting it.

“Stop needling your brother, Faramir,” Varad says tiredly. Dark bags shadow his green eyes as he takes a deep swig of steaming black coffee.

“It was an interesting evening,” I say, lacing my hand with Zev’s. “One spent in the best of company.”

One corner of his mouth tips up as his gaze snaps to our joined hands.

Faramir scowls, stabbing a piece of sausage on his plate.

There is a brief, peaceful moment of silence before he shatters it. “Brother, I’ve been thinking … would you be disappointed if Mayah gives birth to a healer? Healers are so”—he wrinkles his nose—“weak. Boring.”

The room darkens as clouds gather outside, smothering the natural light filtering through the large windows. I squeeze Zev’s hand, still intertwined with my own, shooting him a glance that I hope conveys, I can handle myself. The clouds remain, though Zev dips his chin slightly, lips mashed together to cage the sharp retort that I know is poised on his tongue.

“Weak, compared to waterwielders?” I ask casually, taking a sip of a tart juice Zev pours for me. “Brother-in-law, correct me if I’m mistaken, but my understanding is that a waterwielding bride would have never been permitted inside Arbinj. Isn’t that why my father wasn’t granted leave to attend his own daughter’s wedding? Because he’s a waterwielder?” I lift a brow, letting the question linger. “Honestly, I’m surprised he’s being welcomed to the Equinox Festival.”

Faramir eyes me curiously, like I’m a puzzle he wants to solve. My chair scrapes against the floor as Zev throws his arm over the back and tugs until my side is pressed against his.

“His invitation,” Faramir purrs, “depends on your good behavior, Mayah. Right, Father? If you’re naughty, then—”

“Faramir.” Varad’s voice is rife with warning.

“For a healer, Mayah,” the crown prince continues, undeterred, “you’re actually quite fascinating. And who knows? Maybe you’ll surprise us all and birth an earthwielder like me—”

Faramir ducks as Zev snatches a fork from the table and flings it at him. Silver arcs through the air, the tines of the fork raking through Faramir’s blond hair before clanging to the floor.

“Do not speak to my wife,” Zev growls, leaning across the table, veins bulging in his forearms.

“Guards!” Faramir bellows, his face turning a blotchy red. There’s a strange madness in his wild gaze. “Seize him!” The armored men manning the doorways don’t move. Faramir’s eye twitches uncontrollably. “I said, seize him!”

“ENOUGH!” Varad shouts, slamming a fist on the table. “Faramir, not another word. Zevayr, just—” He rakes a violent hand through his hair—another Zevayr-like mannerism that turns my stomach. “Just stop,” my mother’s murderer growls.

The crown prince levels a scathing glare at his father. His eye twitches again, chest heaving. Faramir beats his head three times—thwack, thwack, thwack—before smoothing his disheveled hair.

An awkward silence persists through the rest of the meal.

“King Varad,” I say eventually, clearing my throat. I force myself not to flinch beneath the king’s gaze—Tides, why must he look so much like Zev?

My husband casts me an inquisitive glance, his hand tightening where it rests on my shoulder. “Speaking of the Equinox Festival … one of the noblewomen last night mentioned that I might assist with planning.”

Varad stares at me for a long moment, eyes drifting toward Zev’s arm thrown possessively over the back of my chair, his body angled toward mine. “That would be a great help,” he finally says. “I’ll have the servants consult you about preparations.” He licks his lips, measuring his next words. “And Mayah … it’s best if you pen a letter to your father about your decision to marry Zevayr. I will write to him as well, of course, but he should hear from you. It will help smooth things over.”

“Of course, King Varad.”

“And … you may call me Father. If you wish.”

I nearly gag. That will never happen. It takes all my political training, years of biting my tongue in council meetings, to smile demurely.

“You’re quite the diplomat, Mayah,” Faramir drawls, trailing a long finger around the rim of his glass. His coloring has returned to normal, but his straight blond hair remains unkempt. “You could be a strong queen … if you wanted.” Before Zev can react, he adds, “Maybe you can get my little brother to stop scowling so much.”

Zev bares his teeth in a snarl.

I run my fingers over my husband’s stubbled jaw, angling his face towards me. Zev. He’s Zev—not Varad.

A spark of surprise alights in Zev’s eyes when I say, “I rather like his broody scowl.” My husband studies me carefully for a moment before his face breaks out in the most delighted, boyish grin.

My heart stutters.

Zev rises from his seat, helping me up. “Excuse us. I have plans today with my wife.”

We’re nearly to the door when Faramir calls, “What about the council meeting?”

Zev waves a dismissive hand. “Fill me in later.”

“…and this is the library.” My husband swings the door open and ushers me inside the latest stop in an hours-long tour. He’s in an incredibly good mood, and I bask in the glow of his attention.

Because I have to.

Not because I want to.

I tear my gaze from his bright eyes and study the library. My breath escapes me. It’s massive.

No. Massive doesn’t come close. The ceiling stretches high above us, sunlight filtering in through large skylights. Towering bookshelves line the walls, rolling ladders stacked against the wooden frames.

Zev’s eyes are fixed on my face, and I realize my lips have parted.

“Like it?” he asks, his voice treacherously deep. I’ll sink beneath its rumbling surface if I’m not careful.

“It’s just—I mean, we have books in Tundrayn, but nothing like this. Can I bring some back to our room?”

Our room.

Something dangerously warm flashes behind his eyes, and he nods slowly, as if caught in a trance.

He leads me through the aisles, my hand tucked in the crook of his arm. I select a book of poetry, a romance novel that he teases me about with waggling brows until my cheeks flush, and a book about the history of Arbinj. Zev casts me a questioning glance as I grab the last one, but I just shrug. “I like to learn.”

We’re ready to leave, when Zev’s footsteps falter. I follow his gaze down a dusty aisle. “What?” I ask.

He swallows. “Nothing. I, uh, just remembered a book. My mother used to read it to me.”

“Show me,” I say softly, pulling him down the aisle. Tension lines his shoulders as he pulls a thick tome from a shelf above my head. Faerahzar the Great and Other Children’s Tales is embossed on the cover in worn letters. Zev runs a reverent finger over the title, as if hoping to brush against some fragment of his mother that time couldn’t erase. His finger comes back coated with dust. His throat bobs as he swallows hard.

My chest squeezes tight.

“Faerahzar? We call him Faerataak the Mighty,” I say lightly, nudging him with my elbow. “He was Tundrayni.”

Zev’s lips quirk. “Don’t say that to anyone else. You’ll get sucked into a two-hour-long debate about why he was definitely Arbinji. Or you’ll get stabbed.”

He goes to replace the book, but I snatch it from his hands. “I’d like to read it.”

Zev stills. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

My husband studies me, something like awe flickering in his gaze. The look sends a sharp ache through my chest—that he’d feel so deeply about me wanting to read a book from his childhood.

I clutch the heavy tome to my chest. “Can we see the Healing Chambers next?”

“Yeah.” Zev clears his throat. “Yeah, we call it an infirmary here.”

The infirmary is nothing like the Healing Chambers in Tundrayn. Cabinets line the walls, overflowing with salves and ointments and oils. A sharp scent lingers in the air, foreign and unpleasant. Zev tells me it’s antiseptic, an alcohol mixture used to prevent infection.

In Tundrayn, healers prevent infection.

“Sire,” greets a white-haired man dressed in simple dark trousers and a moss green shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He bows deeply. “To what do I owe this honor?”

“Sauzon,” Zev responds. “This is Princess Mayah.”

The lean man bows again, torchlight glinting off his spectacles.

There are a few patients asleep in cots, including the man I healed last night, but Zev ushers me out before I can study them too closely.

“Is the infirmary just for nobles?” I ask as we walk through the halls.

“It’s for everyone,” Zev replies.

A whisper of surprise flickers in my chest. I had to fight Father for years before he allowed nonwielders access to the palace’s Healing Chambers. Zev must see the shock on my face because he adds, “I wish I could take credit. It was largely Sauzon’s efforts and research.”

“Research?”

“He spent months documenting the effects of contagious illnesses in the capital. Convinced my father that it was in the best interest of wielders to allow the treatment of nonwielders.” My husband glances at me sideways, squeezing my hand.

There’s a bitter taste in my mouth after that.

We spend the rest of the day exploring the palace and its grounds.

Just before sunset, Zev brings me to the gardens.

His hand is warm in mine as we stroll between tall hedges and manicured shrubs, bursts of color blooming along the stone path. The waning sunlight casts long shadows across our feet. We pass beneath a canopy of leafy trees, slipping into a quiet, secluded area.

My breath catches.

A large blanket is spread over the green grass, its checkered pattern dappled by the golden glow of lanterns strung from nearby branches. A gentle hum—crickets, Zev tells me—fills the twilight air, and a light breeze carries a pleasant floral scent. At the center of the blanket rests a large bouquet—flowering blooms in yellows and pinks and blues. A wicker basket rests beside it, the lid slightly ajar.

Zev watches me with quiet intensity. His expression feels like a question. I offer a soft smile, and something in his shoulders loosens.

I lower myself onto the blanket, folding my legs beneath me. The fabric is warm from the lingering sunlight. Zev sits beside me without a word, his knee brushing mine. From the basket, he pulls out a delicious spread—slices of roasted meat wrapped in flatbread, small containers of stewed vegetables, and a wedge of cheese drizzled with honey.

We eat together in a silence that feels neither awkward nor strained. Just peaceful. Comfortable. Shared. His closeness, the solitude, the soft flicker of lantern light—it all settles around me like a warm blanket thrown over my shoulders.

“Thank you,” I say quietly. He knows I mean for the day together.

His smile is warm before it turns apologetic. I know I’m not going to like the words he utters next. “I won’t have as much time these next few days. There are movements with the Rebellion. And the hopeful alliance with Volca. I’ll be caught up in meetings.”

“Can I come with you?”

Another remorseful twisting of his mouth. I purse my lips.

“Faramir and my father will be there,” he says. “It’s best you avoid them.”

I frown, playing with a loose thread on the blanket. “What am I supposed to do, then?”

“Read the books from the library? Help plan the Equinox Festival?”

My frown morphs into a glare. I don’t like this. It feels too much like being a prisoner.

“I know it’s not ideal,” he says quickly, resting his palm over my knee. “Just give me some time.”

“So that’s it? I just wait in a pretty room until the next dance or dress fitting?”

“No,” he says firmly, squeezing my knee. “You live. And you stay safe.”

I huff, fingers fisting in the blanket. “Can I explore the palace?”

“Not without me.”

The irritation simmering inside my chest boils over.

I jump to my feet, fully intent on storming away, but he was expecting it—Zev grabs my ankle, yanking me back. I tumble down, crashing into him, the breath knocked from my lungs.

He’s ready for me, though—he catches me easily, cradling me in his arms. His eyes are bright, like he’s having the time of his life.

It pisses me off even more.

I writhe, trying to escape his grasp, but he’s too strong. He just holds me tighter until I wear myself out.

When I hang limply in his arms, he asks, “Done?” with a half-smile.

I scowl, refusing to look at him. He cradles me closer to his chest.

“You know I’m not actually a baby, right?” I snap, hitting his shoulder. “You don’t have to hold me like one.”

“How should I hold you, then?” Amusement dances in his gray gaze.

Don’t hold me at all, I want to say, but the words won’t pass my lips. I’m worried he’ll listen and let me go, and I don’t really want him to.

I just can’t admit it.

So I don’t say anything at all.

He sighs, tilting my chin toward him. I keep my eyes fixed firmly over his shoulder.

“Mayah,” he murmurs so softly, I can’t help but meet his gaze. “I left you alone last night for a few minutes, and you were attacked. The war between our kingdoms has raged for decades—it will take time for the citizens to forget. To heal. There could be other people who want to hurt you. Just … don’t leave our chambers without me, okay? I’ll spend every free minute with you.”

“I could explore the palace with my guards. What good are they if I’m not safe with them?” He traces the line of my jaw with his thumb before tucking a loose curl behind my ear.

There’s so much tidesdamned reverence in his touch.

Tides drown me, I can feel my anger melting.

“I could assign you fifty guards, but Faramir can order every single one away.” He cups my cheek. “I want you to be happy here, Mayah. Happy with me. But I also need to keep you safe. Would you let me wander around the Tundrayni palace alone?” He pretends to think, finger tapping against his cheek. “Actually, don’t answer that.”

An amused huff escapes me, and he grins. His smile is slowly becoming my favorite sight. Maybe because he reserves it just for me. I’ve only ever seen him scowl at others.

My heart caves, even as my mind screams that this is a mistake.

“All right.”