Page 147 of Merciless Is My Crown

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ANARIA

They’d tried to make me leave, but I’d refused.

I carefully cradled Tristan’s broken, ruined body in my lap as the healers labored, sending magic through his flesh and bones over and over again. When one healer’s magic ran dry, another stepped up to take their place.

I held him as I watched raw, blistered skin turn pink and plump.

As bones twisted and straightened, popping and grinding while I forced down the bile threatening to spill out between my lips. I couldn’t do anything except run my fingers through what was left of his scorched hair and whisper bullshite assurances I couldn’t keep.

Zor and Raz wouldn’t tell me much.

Nothing, in fact, when they’d dragged Tristan in off the battlefield, except he was alive—almost like he hadn’t been at one point—and the healers were on their way. One side of his face was unscathed, the other was shredded by the dragonfire explosion like he’d been ravaged by enormous claws.

He’d even keep that eye, the healer assured me without missing a beat.

And now…And now.

I’d utterly failed him.

Failed Tristan so badly I could barely look at him. We should have searched that battlefield the second the king was dead. Fuck the pageantry, fuck the politics, we’d left one of ours out there, injured and alone…

Tears burned up my throat, my nose, raining down on his face.

Tristan had been alone his entire life and I’d abandoned him. Put his life—his welfare—second.

“I will make you a promise, right here and now,” I murmured, running my fingers over his undamaged jaw covered still in ash and dirt. “I will never leave you again, Tristan. I swear. Now let me take care of you like I should have been all along.”

Without looking away from Tristan, I asked, “Can I get a wet cloth please?”

I stifled my groan when people scrambled over themselves, practically shoving each other out of the way to reach the washroom. But seconds later, a warm, clean cloth was in my hand, and when my first gentle swipe revealed beautiful, golden skin, something inside me settled.

He’d be okay. Another long, slow swipe, and I ran my fingers down the clean side of his face, over that high, regal cheekbone, tracing a tiny birthmark I hadn’t noticed before.

In time, he’d heal. I pressed my palm over his chest, measuring his steady, even heartbeats.

He had his sight. Nothing was damaged beyond repair, and he’d been unconscious during the horrid healing process, the worst of which was over.

When I finished washing his face, I unbuttoned what was left of his shirt, tatters of black fabric, really, peeled the burned, dirty scraps off his muscled torso, and this time, called for a pitcher of hot water. More rags. Soap.

By the time I looked up again the healers were gone.

It was dark outside, but Tristan was clean and there was a fire roaring in the fireplace. He’d keep his eyes. His face would heal, they’d said, but there would be faint scars.

He’d wake in a strange bed, in a wing I’d never been to before, but he was safe.

Watched over by two guards—personally chosen by Commander Zorander Vayle—posted outside. I knew because they’d interrogated every single person who’d gone through that door. I pulled the blankets over Tristan and covered him up to his neck, tucking them in around him as carefully as if he were the most precious thing in the world.

I poured him some water and stood back, then nudged the glass closer so he didn’t have to reach.

And then, because I couldn’t help myself, I brushed a kiss across his lips.

A promise in the face of all my failures today.

“You saved our lives, Tristan. And when you wake up, I want to love you the way I love the others. I want to taste your kisses and discover your secrets and know everything about you, including why you turned into a wyvern that day in the tunnels.”

“So when you wake up, come and find me.”

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