Page 142 of The Call of Crimson
“Why?” I ask, voice unsteady.
He creates a new Faerie light, illuminating the space. In his outstretched hand is a damp cloth, and in the other are fresh bandages.
Smiling meekly, I hold my hand out to him.
“It looks like it’s already stopped bleeding,” he says as he gently wipes the dried blood and wine from my palm.
The flesh is tender, but he’s right. It’s no longer bleeding, thanks to Aurelius.
Once the wound is clean, he wraps it with deft fingers, tying the bandage snugly.
“I’m sorry it took so long to find you. I got stopped in the kitchen when I was looking for supplies.” His voice is achingly sincere. “Are you okay?”
I shake my head. “It’s fine.”
He studies my face, unconvinced.
“I’m just tired,” I lie. “Can you make an excuse for me?”
He looks me up and down, seemingly not buying my excuse. “Of course,” he says, much to my surprise. “I’ll tell them you weren't feeling well from the wine.”
He offers his arm.
I take it silently, letting him lead me away from the wreckage of the night, and into another kind of battle altogether.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
AURELIUS
Iflip through the weathered pages of the book in my lap, trying to lose myself in the words in hopes of ignoring the pain in my chest. Breyla’s suggestion that we shouldn’t have been cut deep.
It felt like something cracked inside of me when she refused to refute it. She was adept at using her words as weapons, but never had she wielded them so precisely against me.
The third time I read the same sentence, and it still makes no more sense than the first, I let out a huff of frustration.
Closing the book gently, I lay it on the bedside table, opting for the glass of spiced rum instead. I take a long sip, tasting each spice as it rushes over my tongue and burns down my throat.
A soft knock sounds from the door. It’s so quiet, I wonder if I imagined it.
The ball had ended hours ago, the last of the guests departing before I returned to my room.
Breyla never came back to the celebration after I left her in the dark. Not that I could blame her.
Another knock, this time louder. This time, I know I’m not imagining it.
Shock rattles through me when I open the door to find Breyla standing there.
She’s dressed in a white nightgown, a heavy black robe wrapped around her, auburn hair disheveled, bare feet peeking out beneath the hem. She’s the single most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen.
“What are you doing here, Breyla?” I choke out.
Lifting her hand to me in the offering, she says, “It won’t stop bleeding.”
Sure enough, there’s a steady trickle of blood pooling in her palm and dripping onto the floorboards.
I step aside, letting her pass. Closing the door behind her, I take her hand gently to inspect the wound.
“This should have started scabbing over by now,” I mutter.
