“Nine.”
Emmery’s stomach sank. Even Maela was older before her death.
Destonne ran his thumb over the series of puncture wounds resembling swelling red bullseyes. “It’s silly, but I still miss him,” he said softly.
Emmery’s skin warmed as he skimmed his fingers down her hand to her wrist, the gesture familiar, common, a stark contrast to how they’d danced around each other these past few days and avoided whatever was forming in the air between them. But now they leaned into one another as if there was more than words to be exchanged.
“It’s not silly,” Emmery breathed.
“I tell myself he’s in a better place,” Destonne continued. “He was in tremendous pain from the fluid filling his lungs. The healers would have to drain it. How he managed such agony, I’ll never know.”
She winced as she rubbed at her blood-slickened chest. To be drowned by your own lungs was a terribly cruel thing and why the gods would subject a young boy to such a fate was always hard to understand. How they chose who would bear such a burden.
“You face your fair share of pain.” Emmery nodded at the ragged skin on his chest which seemed to be healing at a startling speed.
Destonne pulled away like she’d said something wrong, perhaps not wanting to acknowledge her observation or the hint of compassion laced within it. He wrapped his torso in the garment and buttoned what remained of the shirt. “We should get you to a healer,” he said, voice low.
“Let me heal you first. It’s the least I can do.” She flexed her good hand, which had itched with her silver threads to mendhis wounds, though her head swam as an ache formed in her temples.
He gently slid her legs off his lap and stood. “That’s not necessary.”
She reached for his hand, but thought better, and allowed him to retreat from her. “But you plucked those quills for me.”
He lifted his hand to shove his hair back from his face and Emmery narrowed her eyes on a half dozen marks on the inside of his bicep revealed through the shredded sleeve. The torn, bloody skin made it almost impossible to make them out but, those had to be pactum scars. And really, she shouldn’t be surprised. She could only begin to imagine the things he traded and sold and bargained to get what he wanted. How had he phrased it that dinner before they’d made their pactum?
Don’t mistake my decency for weakness. I don’t beg. I don’t grovel. And I certainly don’t fall to my knees for anyone. I get what I desire and deal accordingly with those who stand in my way.
At least he’d been upfront with her. But wasn’t he only moments ago on his knees for her?
Destonne retrieved her cloak from where it hung on a tree branch, and tossed it over as if he suddenly couldn’t put enough distance between them. “I didn’t do it for a favour.”
Emmery winced at the sting of her palm as she caught it and balled the fabric in her lap. “Then, why?”
He exhaled a long breath, pinched the bridge of his nose, and ignored her question. “Now it seems it’syouwho doesn’t understand the meaning of no.”
After she slung her cloak angrily over her shoulders and yanked the clasps closed, she glanced down at her chest and arms. Her deep wounds still bled. The familiar sticky sensation tightened her chest, and she fought the memory of Vesper’s blood. She grabbed her boots and shoved her feet into them withmore force than necessary. Her damn swollen fingers wouldn’t work as she fumbled with the laces. “Why won’t you—”
Destonne spun, took a giant step toward her, and her voice died. “You’ve already lost a lot of blood and it’smyfault. Now you want to use your magic to heal me?” He huffed a bitter laugh. “I don’t think so.”
“But—” She bit back her response as he sank to the ground and seized her booted foot. Emmery’s chest constricted as his eyes locked on hers.
“It’s not your burden to bear. It’smine.” He methodically laced her boot, never once removing his gaze from hers. “Don’t waste your magic on me.”
Not knowing how to respond, she sat there mute.
Waste.As if he wasn’t worth the effort. What a terrible way to think of oneself and a shocking revelation from the King of Thorns, who gave the impression of overwhelming arrogance. A complicated man who tookwhathe wanted,whenhe wanted, like stealing his kingdom out of his father’s cold dead hands, but yet would try to convince her not to heal him when she offered.
Destonne held her gaze as his fingers worked, not a flicker of humour in his eyes this time. Instead, an intensity she couldn’t place simmered there. One that sparked a flush beneath her skin.
Aera leapt off Emmery’s lap and plunked herself down beside Destonne, cocking her head at the two of them. Emmery barely paid the fox any mind as she stared at Destonne, unwilling to be the first to look away. It seemed he had the same idea, and the corner of his lip twitched as he took in her pink cheeks.
Gods, how could one man make her squirm just by looking at her?
“Are you angry?” she whispered, her chest in knots.
He looped the lace. “No.”
Emmery gnawed on her lip, not sure what else to say because he certainlysoundedangry. And he should be. If she’d died, he couldn’t retrieve his magic and that was all he wanted.