Page 47 of The Dragon Warlord
“You are handsome with any length of hair, Warlord,” I say. It’s true.
Tristan laughs. How can he laugh at a time like this? “You absolutely hate it.”
“I didn’t lie. You are handsome, Warlord.”
“And you’d rather see me with my long hair.”
“Fine. It is my preference.” I’m going to miss burying myself in it. I guess there’s enough left, but it won’t be the same.
“I wanted to surprise you, but you’ve been through enough. It’ll be back by morning. There’s a spell woven into it.”
I can’t hide my relief. I beam. “I’m glad, Warlord but I would have made peace with whatever length you wanted to keep it.”
With great effort, he rolls onto his side. Tears prick his eyes. The pain must be massive. “You’re not the only man in my life to hate it short. I’ll add you to the list.”
I don’t mind being added to that list. “Will you drink the tea now, Warlord?”
“If I do, will you cease your fussing over me?”
“I’ll always do what you tell me to do, Warlord. There’s no question about that. You’re my alpha.”
He wrinkles his nose, deflating a little. Did I say something wrong?
“I’ll drink this tea of yours. Any chance it’ll put me to sleep?”
“It will.”
“All right. Do you mind staying for a bit? I don’t want to be alone.” It’s a lot of wincing and hissing, but he makes it to a seated position so that he can drink the tea.
“I’ll stay as long as you want me to, Warlord.”
* * *
The next three days are unpleasant for the Warlord, but he lets me care for him and change his bandages. I bring him food and water, and herbal tea. He’s given the chance to recover. I sleep in a cot nearby in case he needs me.
He’s gotten contemplative, having all kinds of thoughts that I’m not privy to. I don’t ask either. He should get privacy.
On the third day, he says, “Will you fetch me some paper, Riv? And, uh, maybe something to write with too.”
“I can, Warlord, but what are the chances you might like to see your war room?”
He declined the last time I asked him.
Swinging his legs to the edge of his bed, he stands. His stiff movements give away how sore he still is, but he’s a world better. “Let’s do it. Brush my hair and bring me my jacket instead.”
Brushing his hair is a ritual we’ve started to introduce a lengthened kind of touching. It calms us. Our bond settles further, which is good, but it means we don’t have to spend as much time together. When he’s to full strength again, we probably won’t. I’m not looking forward to that.
After brushing his hair so much it shines, I help him into his jacket, and he looks like the Warlord again.
“Guess this is me for the foreseeable future,” he says. I can’t tell if he’s happy or sad about that. “Bring your sword. I don’t think I could wield mine just yet.”
“Yes, Warlord.”
During our walk to his war room on the other side of The Tower, he stands tall. You’d never know he was punished.
Once we’re behind the tall, dragon stone doors, he collapses in the chair behind his desk, barely taking in the fine architecture. Carved into his desk are the wordsdragon heart; steel fistin the ancient dragon language.
His office opens to the gardens where there will be a portal to the fields when he’s allowed to go to them. There’s a large table in the center with a giant map across its surface. I look forward to showing him how it works if he’ll let me.
