Page 106 of Nightbane
“Where were you?” she demanded.
A muscle feathered in his jaw. It had been a month since she had seen him. “I was preoccupied,” he finally said.
“With what?”
He said nothing.
She scoffed. Unbelievable. “What could be more important than finding the sword?”
“Not more important, simply more ... pressing.” He had hinted at trouble in his realm. Was that what he was referring to?
“You could have told me. You could have visited at least once ... allowed me to tell you what I had learned.”
He raised an eyebrow at her. “Miss me, Hearteater?”
She huffed. “No. Every time I see you, I get injured, or insulted.”
Grim frowned, just the smallest bit. He focused solely on her hand. “What were you thinking?” he said harshly.
She sighed, wincing at another shot of pain. “I was thinking I could find the sword without you,” she said honestly.
Isla leaned against his chest, gritting her teeth against the pulling of the glass. Some shards were small, but others felt like knives being plucked from her palms. She tried to breathe past it. The same pain, over and over, she could almost get used to. She had learned that during the hours she had spent preparing for specific Centennial ceremonies.
“I went looking for you, before,” she said, voice just a rasp.
“I know.”
The woman must have told him. Her cheeks suddenly heated with embarrassment. And ... something else. Her next question bubbled out of her. “Who was that woman?”
“She’s my general,” he said.
His general.“Does she suspect ... ?”
“I told her you were someone I had found to bed from another realm.”
Isla swallowed. He said the words so simply ... was that what she was to him? A girl from another realm he had clearly, at Creetan’s Crag, wanted to bed?
Inside, she felt like shattered glass, but she closed her eyes and said as smoothly as she could manage, “I know where the sword is. The thief in Creetan’s Crag told me.”
“Where?”
“The Caves of Irida.”
“I know it.”
She expected him to look happier about this development; they were so much closer to finding the sword, but his focus was still pinned on her hand. The last piece of glass on that hand clinked against the bowl. He leaned down and whispered right near her ear, “This is going to hurt,” before he poured alcohol over her hand.
Grim pressed his palm against her scream. She was grateful. It was an anchor in the sea of pain.
It was blinding. She writhed against him, and he cleared his throat. One of his hands pressed against her hip, holding her still.
“If you can help it,” he ground out, “please stop that.”
Oh.
She froze.
She was suddenly far too conscious of his body pressed against her as he reached for her other hand and began again.
