Page 81 of To Love a Dark Lord

“Yes, it seems so.” He leaned his head against the high back of his chair.

She downed half of her glass in one gulp and coughed. “Fuck, I needed this earlier today.”

“How painful is it?”

“Right now?” She looked at her bandaged hand. “It aches. Stings from time to time for a little while. But man, when Tim did it, I saw stars. I thought I was going to pass out or throw up.”

With a huff, he turned his attention to the flames. “You let the guard do it?”

“I wanted Mae to do it, but she couldn’t.”

“No, I wouldn’t expect so.” He frowned. “I did not even consider that you would do such a thing.”

“I tried to melt the ring off. No dice. I didn’t have time to try anything else.” Turning her hand over, she put it on the arm of the chair. “Could be worse. I could be dead. Or, y’know, chained to you with a glorified on-off switch wired to my brain. That was extremely not cool, Mordred.”

“I know. I simply thought…” He shut his eyes. “It does not matter what I thought.”

“Two reasons. One, I still love you. I’m just exceedingly angry with you. And I don’t know how long that’ll outweigh the rest of my emotions. And two? You couldn’t kill Galahad. You deserve a quiet death somewhere else.”

“Galahad. Did you end his suffering?”

“No. Kind of? He’s going home to Tir n’Aill. Going to go become a tree, or something. Fae stuff. He leaves in the morning. Do you want to be there?”

Mordred chuckled quietly. “That sounds like a fitting end for him. And…no. I would not be welcome.”

Another long stretch of silence.

“I will keep this island safe.” Her voice sounded like that of a true queen. Whatever strength she had come to find when she battled through his magic to wake from her dream, and then to stand against him—it was formidable.

And by the Ancients, it made him love her all the more.

“Even if it means…” She trailed off.

Even if it means you say goodbye to me. He shut his eyes. Mordred had expected anger. Fury. He could have dealt with that. He could have responded to that. But this icy, impassive response? It felt more like the closing of a tomb upon his heart. It burned him more than her flames ever could.

Gwen finished her second glass of whiskey. “I should go.”

“Wait.” He stood before kneeling at her feet. She watched him carefully, the look of wariness in her eyes pouring salt on an already deep wound. He took her injured hand and gently unwound the bandages. It was a clean cut. Someone had had the presence of mind to cauterize the wound. He doubted it would become infected.

But it was wrong to have her missing a part of herself.

“You have no reason to trust me.”

“No, I don’t.” She stared at him. “And if you try any shit this time, I will put you in a very deep hole for a very long time.”

He smiled and laughed once. “As you wish, my queen. But allow me to give you a gift as we part. Something, perhaps, to remember me by.”

“No magic.”

“I will leave that to you.” He placed her hand in his, palm to palm. Her hand had always looked so very small in his gauntlet, but now it seemed even more so—bruised and raw, the wound angry and seeping.

Using some of the iron from his own armor, he began to sculpt. A new finger, from the knuckle to the tip, to replace the old. Made of polished steel, and far more delicate and gentle than his own claws. There was no jagged talon at the end. No rust. The nail was sharp but understated.

When he finished, he sat back on his heels.

She lifted her hand, studying the piece. Then, with a breath, she flexed the finger experimentally, pouring her magic into it to control it like it was a part of her. Slowly, she made a fist, then straightened her fingers one by one, testing it. When she looked back to him, she smiled. Just a little. Just enough. “I’ll take it.”

And he would accept that. Taking her hand, he kissed her knuckles before standing and lifting her to her feet.

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