Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
The weight of my helplessness churns all day, until it crashes into my other pressing worry: Quin. He may heal faster than most, but he’s still fragile, trapped in this precarious situation. What if his condition worsens? What if . . .
By the time the moon rises, my worries are all tangled together. I’m so caught up in them that I don’t realise I’ve dragged myself back to the temple and into Quin’s space.
I plunk myself on the end of the bed, sigh, and flop backwards until I’m frowning at the same ceiling I woke up to this morning.
“By all means, make yourself at home.”
His voice cleaves through my worries and I spring up, clasping my curacowl.
Quin is at the table, eating the meal sent to him with a bottle of wine to wash it down. I immediately move to him and check he hasn’t overdone the drinking. I feel his pulse, and he murmurs, “More concerned about me taking a few sips than yourself downing a whole bottle.”
“I’m not injured.” I let him go. “But I won’t drink again.”
He inclines his head thoughtfully, as if he’s mostly happy with this, but also . . . disappointed? “Whatever you want.”
“What I want . . .” I laugh and try a morsel off his plate. It’s a hard ask to swallow. “Is this the quality of food you’re getting every day?”
“I am a prisoner.”
I growl and clear the food away while Quin studies me.
“Sit,” he says. “Talk to me.”
“I’d rather you strip,” I whip back, with the intention of salving his wounds, but the exaggerated way he freezes has me wishing I’d phrased that differently, and with far less intensity. I try again, softly this time, “I mean, ready yourself and lie on the bed.”
I whimper and hope he hasn’t heard it.
Quin uses his broomstick and positions himself beside the bed. He quietly peels off his top layers, and before he lies down and makes my veiled—thank all the Skeldar gods—flushing worse, I tell him to stay there and scramble behind him with the creams.
His skin ripples in shivers as I gently apply them, but it’s the sound of his breath that gets me. In the silence of the room, it’s so loud. And so is my own. Loud and uneven. My fingers tremble as I finish tending his back.
I quickly—too quickly—pull his shirt back into place and feel him jerk at my roughness. At his collar, my hand stills and his shoulder-length hair skitters over my glove. “Sorry,” I whisper. I start to drag my hand away but he snags it—and quickly releases.
He clears his throat. “My hair. It keeps falling into my face. Can you . . .”
His hair is still short, but I’ll do my best.
I remove my gloves and he stirs at the flash of their material dropping onto the bed. I start shifting onto my knees, but Quin rises with the aid of his broomstick cane and settles himself on the floor.
He becomes a wall of heat between my legs as I slide them either side of him. My nail drags along his scalp, eliciting a tremble that I feel echo up my arms.
“How shall I thank you,” he says, “if I’m freed? If we meet again?”
“We won’t meet again.”
He’s quiet.
I mess up and have to start over.
“If I insist on a reward?”
“Chicken. Roasted. It’s all fish here.” Blast, I lost the thread again.
I shove up my veil so I can see better. “You know, the chuckling is not helping me.”
He calms under me, and finally I manage the first braid. But—
I tug a pouch off my belt and toss it into his lap. “Pass me a fastening?”
Quin opens the string and pulls out a plain fastening, holding it up over his shoulder. I take it and clasp the end of the braid.
“Why do you have a pouch full of fastenings?”
“Hardly full. There are only twenty-four.” Aaand, I got the perfect amount of hair this time.
“Precise number,” he says on a murmur, and I almost drop the braid.
“They were . . . sold by the dozen. I grabbed two sets.”
“Sold by the dozen in a country whose fashion does not include braiding.”
“The store owner was part Lumin.”
“Ah, I see.” A pause. “And of course you happened to go in to buy some.”
“I thought you’d need them soon, with your hair growing so fast, so . . .”
“You think about me during other parts of your day.”
“It’s hard not to.”
Quin tries to turn his head but I steer his face back with a warning tsk.
He laughs.
I click my fingers for another fastening, and he presses one into my hand.
One by one, I plait a thin braid for each year of his life and clasp them. When I’m on the last one, Quin hums. “When you said Prins Lief wants you to be his . . .”