Page 69 of Stolen

“I like that beard,” he said lazily, his voice muffled by the bed.

I sat back on my heels, one hand lifting to the hair that was just beginning to feel soft instead of itchy. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You think I should keep it?”

He flipped over. His silver eyes studied me a moment, and then he sat up and stroked his fingers over my cheek. “Not if it reminds you of…that place.”

I grunted. I’d told him everything that happened in Eldenvalla, leaving out some of the details I knew he could fill in on his own.

“I’ll leave it for a while,” I said. “It’ll keep my face warm through the winter.”

He smiled, but his eyes were sad. “You can talk to me about it. If you want to.”

“I’d rather talk about your hand.”

“Fuck,” he muttered, lifting it between us. “I’d rather not talk about it.” His eyes followed the thin curl of smoke that rose from the velvet and drifted toward the ceiling.

My gut clenched. “Is there anything you can do?” But I knew there wasn’t. Vampires feared solstone for a reason. The metal was exceedingly rare, which was a saving grace. But it only took one blade to inflict an everlasting injury.

“Yes,” Laurent murmured, surprising me. He continued watching the smoke as if it fascinated him.

“What?” I pressed, wishing he’d stop. He didn’t seem to take the injury as seriously as he should. It would kill him eventually. Not right away. He was too powerful for that. But his body was caught in a constant struggle to heal itself, and it couldn’t wage that battle indefinitely. At some point, he’d grow so weak that no amount of blood would save him.

“Laurent,” I said sharply.

He lowered his hand. “I’m leaving for the Sanctum in the morning. I’m going to ask the gods to give me the bly’ad for heal.”

My heart sped up. The language of priests was cloaked in mystery. Only the gods could bestow the power words, and only the most accomplished priests could speak them. Laurent possessed nine—more than any other priest. But receiving them was dangerous. Every time he sought a new one, he courted death.

I swallowed the protests that crowded my throat. “Were you going to tell me?”

“I’m telling you now.”

“Laurent…”

He shoved his good hand through his hair—a gesture that made my heart ache because it was one of his few tells. But I didn’t need to see it to know he was nervous. The other times he’d attempted to learn a new bly’ad, he’d been healthy and strong. Approaching the gods in his weakened state was an enormous risk.

His dark lashes swept his cheeks as he lowered his gaze. “I wouldn’t have left without telling you.” He swallowed. “I didn’t want to ask, but I’d actually like it if you attend me during the rite. I don’t think I can recover with blood from the thralls.” He looked up. “I know you’re not fully recovered yourself—”

“I am,” I said at once. “I’m fine. Gods, Laurent, I can’t believe you’d even hesitate to ask.”

“It’s a lot of blood.”

“I’m a lot of male.”

He gave me an appreciative look. “You certainly are. I’m going to walk into the Sanctum with a limp, and I am not complaining, General.”

My face heated—and my dick stirred, damn Laurent and his mouth. I cleared my throat. “That’s settled, then. We’ll leave at first dawn.” I gave him a look. “You should tell Given.”

“Why, so she can celebrate the possibility of my death?”

A flash of anger made my voice gruff. “You know better than that.”

“I do,” he conceded. “But she’s still so angry with me. I don’t know how to fix that.”

“You should try talking to her.”

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