Page 121 of The Princess Knight
“Kordislaen got a hit in, which probably didn’t help. A healer looked it over, though. It’s fine,” he reassured her.
She hovered near him, hands fluttering by her side. But concern was quickly replaced with anger. “If you weren’t so frequently close to death, I would kill you myself,” she muttered. “You kept pushing yourself, ignoring your limits, andriskingyourlife. You knew you were already in pain, and thatifyou survived, you would be making your pain worse. In a time of war.”
“I won’t be defined by the pain. I won’t let it hold me back, not when I’m needed—when I can make a difference,” he argued.
“What weneedis for you to be okay,” she insisted, shaking her head. “Pushing yourself beyond your limits isn’t brave. It’s stupidity. Your pain does not make you lesser. What worries me is your careless regard for your own health.
“You could have stayed back. Gotten help. We could have formed a group and trailed the general. You didn’t need to risk yourself and worsen your pain. You don’t have to do everything alone.”
Hazel eyes held his, fierce and unrelenting. Her words settled between them.
He knew he had taken a risk, one he might come to regret, but he’d still gone with Kordislaen. Was it courage, or spite? Either way, he was left hurt in the end.
She softened. “It’s okay to have limits. We all do. It’s not a reflection of who you are. But when you keep pushing yourself, despite knowing you shouldn’t, you’re only hurting yourself and those who care about you.”
He had been so determined to win the fight his body had begun that he didn’t consider that perhaps the cost was too high. That he was affecting others—and himself—in ways he never wanted.
He promised her he would try. He promisedhimself.
Another sigh fell from him. “You’re right,” he whispered. “We owe ourselves empathy. It’s all we can control.”
“I’m usually right.” She smiled. A tentative truce. “I hope Kordislaen came out of that fight looking worse.”
He thought of the general, bleeding on the ground in that forest. When Ronan left, he was still breathing. “He did, but... I couldn’t kill him.”
He watched as understanding dawned on her face. Her palm came to rest on his chest, the touch soft and caring, but her eyes were pained. Of course, it had only been days since she hadkilled Ó Connor. “I’m sure you’ll get another chance. However, it’ll be up to you if you want to take it. This shouldn’t have to fall to you.”
He covered her hand with his own, holding it tight against him. “Thank you.”
In the silence, the air between them grew still and tense. There was still one thing left to address.
Clía stepped back. “I owe you an apology. After Ó Connor, and my conversation with Kordislaen—” Her hair fell in front of her eyes, hiding them from him. “I trust you. More than anyone. It wasn’t that I doubted you; I doubted myself. And I pulled away.”
Ronan stopped her. “I should be the one apologizing. In that moment, you needed space, and I kept pushing.” He fell quiet for a second. “I shouldn’t have said what I said.”
In the moment, while he sat pressed against her locked door, he’d wanted nothing more than to fight to keep her with him. He wanted her to know every reason she had for staying. The words he had been keeping inside fell out far too easily. It was true, but not the right time.
“No,no.” Her voice was soft but stern. The same tone he had learned very quickly not to argue with. She lifted her hand to cup his neck, and he froze below her touch. Scared that a single movement might chase her away and he’d lose her again. “Don’t regret that. Never regret that. I don’t.”
Ronan could feel the warmth from her body flood his. She was so close, the closest she’d been since their failed mission, without an immediate threat pulling them apart. Since theirbrush with death. His hand moved with a mind of its own, resting on the soft skin of her cheek. His thumb brushed over her lips, and all thought left him.
Their heads leaned in, forehead to forehead. In this moment, there was no war, no betrayal. They were together, and he wasn’t alone anymore.
“Ronan.” Her voice was a soft caress. “I—”
Suddenly, the door behind him was pushed forward, and Ronan twisted to the side with Clía to keep them from falling. He immediately put himself between her and whoever was entering.
Niamh stood in the doorway, eyebrow raised. “Should I leave?”
Ronan schooled his features to avoid sending her a glare. Niamh had an uncanny skill for interrupting them, and something told him she knew that.
“No, come in,” Clía replied, stepping away from Ronan. Cold filled the spot she left behind, and he fought the urge to trail after her. “You brought them?”
Niamh stepped to the side. “See for yourself.”
The most powerful people in Caisleán Cósta filed into Sárait’s fabric room, one by one. Head Commander Brecc, in full armor, with an impatient look on his face; Captain Duinn, her hand perpetually on her sword; and Draoi Griffin. They radiated command. Ronan was surprised by the pin on Griffin’s doublet signifying his rank as commander; he must have taken over Ó Dálaigh’s position after his death. Domhnall and Kían were the last to enter, leaving very little space in the room.
If any one of them was confused about Clía’s presence or their unorthodox location, they didn’t reveal it.
