Page 83 of Song of the Heart Scale
I sniffed. “One day you might not.”
“Then I’ll haunt you,” he said with a ghost of a smile.
I rolled my eyes. “Great. A dragon-shaped poltergeist. That’ll really help me sleep.”
He laughed, then winced. “Ow. Don’t make me laugh. Ribs feel like they’re doing a puzzle back there.”
Royal Prince Bai finally exhaled and turned away. “I’ll double the watch and send word to our allies. Thorne’s becoming more reckless.”
I nodded, barely hearing him.
All I could see was Damien’s blood staining my hands.
Dread settled deep in my gut, heavier than stone.
If this was what resisting Thorne looked like now, what would open war bring?
And how many of us would survive it?
Damien was heavierthan I remembered, or maybe it was just the fact that he was bleeding like a stuck pig and half of his weight was slumped over my shoulder. His arm dangled uselessly around me as I helped him up the winding staircase of Royal Prince Bai’s mansion, his boots dragging more with each passing second.
“Stop trying to carry me,” he muttered through gritted teeth.
“You weigh more than my stubborn emotional baggage, and that’s saying something!” I snapped, adjusting my grip. “Just be glad I’m not making you crawl.”
He didn’t respond except for a grunt as I all but shoved the bedroom door open with my shoulder and helped him stagger to the edge of the bed. Maeve scurried in behind us with a bowl of warm water, cloths, and a stack of fresh bandages cradled in her arms.
“Put that there.” I nodded toward the nightstand. “And then wait outside.”
“My lady, I can help—”
“I’ve got this, Maeve,” I said gently but firmly. “Go.”
She hesitated, clearly torn between duty and giving us privacy, but eventually nodded and slipped out the door.
I turned back to Damien, who was trying to pull off his tunic with one hand while holding his ribs with the other. “Stop. You’re going to rip it worse.” I squatted in front of him and swatted his hands away.
He sighed and let me undress him. Carefully, I peeled the dark fabric up over his head and removed the bandages I’d haphazardly placed downstairs, revealing the angry bruises painting his torso. Gashes crisscrossed his abdomen and shoulders, one especially deep cut seeping crimson just below his ribs.
I winced. “Damn. That’s... artistic.”
“Let’s call it abstract suffering,” he muttered hoarsely.
I grabbed a cloth, dipped it into the bowl of water, and began wiping the blood away more carefully this time. “We should call Garrick.”
“No.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“I heal fast.”
“You also lie fast.”
His dark eyes met mine. “No to the warlock. He’s done enough already.”
I didn't argue. Not because I agreed, but because I knew how stubborn he could be and I had other priorities right now—like making sure he didn’t bleed out on the duvet.
“You’re lucky you’re hot,” I noted dryly as I cleaned the wound near his ribs. “Otherwise, I’d be very annoyed at how much work you’re making me do.”
