Page 115 of Unrivaled
If I got up now and tried to move my body, it might help.It might not.Whatwouldhelp was sleep.But the heat was unbearable.
Isolde hesitated beside me, her hand lingering above my shoulder, silently asking permission to touch me.I rested my head against her forearm.
Her hand closed over my shoulder, a heavy, unapologetic weight.Tears prickled my eyes.
“Come to my room if you’d benefit from having me near,” she told me.
The Wife Herself couldn’t hold a torch to the unquestioning love of my mentor and friend.The simple statement was a reminder of all the times I’d done just that, lingering wordlessly in her doorway.She’d always, without fail, been there for me when I needed her…and left me, when I needed to be apart.
Her fingers squeezed, just a little.I lifted my head when she moved away.I didn’t hear her taking the stairs, of course.I couldn’t feel the shift of her lack of presence.The room didn’t feelemptier.She was still here, with me, a shout or unsheathing weapon away.
I considered slipping down into the cool dungeons.No one would ever find me.If I took a set of keys with me, I wouldn’t worry a door might be closed behind me.I could rest.
A knock on the door sent fear lancing through me.A moment later, murmured conversation came.I recognized Chay’s voice, though not his words.
Imagine, a mage, and two illegal apprentices.Coming up with items that could be abused.In reach of my father.
I hadn’t yet figured how we could exploit the absorbency Amber could imbue in fabric.I was confident there was a way.Mayhap I should’ve been glad I couldn’t see it.But protection from wounds?Only for those rich enough to purchase the kits?Knowing those same people had access to the mage healers to vanish those wounds only made it so much worse.
The opening door made me raise my head.My mind started to whir in a different direction when I saw Chay and Elnyta.Of course, the only person visiting me so late was my Captain.Or a bearer of bad news, but there was none of that today.Threats on the horizon, mayhap, but what was new?
“You look like you’ve just sailed a rough strait,” Elnyta said.“Should I come back with beer?”
“No.”The liquor, I was sure, was part of the problem.Or mayhap an inelegant solution?“You’re out late.”
“I am.”They came into the room, closing the door between Chay and us.One less person was good, but I stared at Elnyta’s face, with their expressive eyes and their arrogantly arched brows, and wondered if I should send them away.
Elnyta came in, their steps slow.“Did I misread something?”they asked, partway to my seat.“Should I be leaving?”
Had they misread something?I shook my head.I didn’t know how they were reading me, so I didn’t know whether it wasmisreading.“I’m low on words,” I told them.
Their brows furrowed.I watched those beautiful hazel eyes dip down to my lips with worry.I’d put that worry in their expression.They’d been wearing a happy grin when Chay opened the door.How hadn’t I noticed that happy grin untilnow,when it was already gone?
“Does that mean you’d rather have quiet?”they asked.
I nodded, because it was simpler.
“Long day, huh?”Their steps were more confident as they started moving toward me.
My brain buzzed.Did they think I’d invite them into my bed to share my quiet?Would they chatter incessantly?Could I find just a little more of myself to give them even part of the greeting I’d wanted to share with them when I’d seen their masts in my bay earlier?
They shrugged off their vest.I closed my eyes, feeling sick.It wasn’t that I was low on words, but low on the ability to turn them into meaning and the energy to share them.I hadsomany words, all tangled up in my head.Words about how I’d missed them.How I’d been worried they wouldn’t miss me.Words about what I’d done since they left and how I’d felt like a kraken.Words about the deaths that had changed our trajectory, and words about how I’d felt myself softening too much for Luca.
Was it trulymesoftening?Was it the habit of softening myself to survive?A knife would cut through cool butter, carve pieces of it off.But if the butter was soft enough, the knife would leave a streak, but remain a soft mass, scarred, but whole.
Was I butter?
A cup met my hand.I opened my eyes.The liquid inside was clear, or very pale.Candlelight glinted off the surface.The joints of my fingers grated as I forced myself to open my hand and took the cup.
They settled at my feet with a sigh, wrapping a hand around one of my feet and easing it onto their lap.Strong, calloused fingers started rubbing, and sensation screamed through my overloaded system.My belly rolled and I jerked my foot back.
They released me as the shock rolled through me.Hot on its heels was shame.But they didn’t try to grab me, just held up their hands in a motion of peace.“I should’ve asked,” they said.“I was trying to not talk.”
I squeezed my eyes shut.“It’s fine.I’m just tired.”The words hadn’t been planned, which made them easier.Mayhap that was the trick.Or mayhap all that was left was my practice being a melted pat of butter.
“Can I talk to you?”
“Of course.”The words were reflex.I didn’t know if they were also truth.
