Page 81 of War Hour

My split lip. Courtesy of Visha’s mother.

I flinch before his skin can touch mine, and a stab of hurt crosses his face.

It’s not as if I thought he planned to hurt me. It’s just a reflex to someone being so close, to someone reaching for my face. But before I can assure him as much, he moves back, giving me space.

Torryn’s jaw clenches as he looks toward the party floating on without us. His gaze is unfocused, and from this close, I can see the rosy tint to his cheeks.

“Tell me who did this, and I will take care of it. Anyone who thought they could lay a hand on you should fear for their life.”

My eyes widen at his words, and I can’t help but blink back at him.

There is no way he is truly this defensive of me after how he has been acting the past week. It must be the alcohol, I rationalize. There is no other reason for it.

When Torryn turns to march toward the ballroom, I pull him back. “It was an accident. It’s just a split lip, and it doesn’t even hurt.”

A small lie to prevent Torryn from going in there to start the next war. Not a bad plan for if tomorrow goes awry, but perhaps a decision that should be madesober.

Torryn stumbles, unsteady on his feet, when I pull him, and his hip knocks into the balcony.

Now that he’s even closer to me, I can feel his breath against my forehead. I don’t smell the alcohol, having expected it to be oozing from his pores and coating his breath. Instead, sea water, amber, and a deeper woodsy scent overwhelms my senses.

Torryn’s lips purse into a thin line, as if holding them tight will keep him from ever having to divulge what’s running through his mind.

He leans in closer, ducking so our noses are nearly touching.

He’s drunk, I remind myself.He wouldn’t be doing this if he were sober.

I place my palm over the center of his chest. Nudging him back, I increase the space between us.

“Stop. I’ll make it better,” he whispers, eyes heavy lidded. “You’ve hurt enough.”

Is he truly planning on kissing me? What, did he think I’m so pitiful out here during the ball that I need some pity attention?

But then there’s a rush of air across my lips, and I freeze. Torryn’s breath caresses my lips, bathing the sensitive skin with warm heat.

And then the pain is gone.

I blink at him, processing the shift before the realization hits me. Could he heal? But he already has a power from the Court of Change. . .

I bring my hand to my split lip, and the slice is still there. When I pull my hand away, tiny specs of blood tint my finger.

He hadn’t healed me. But any lingering pain has vanished. Before, my mouth stung with just a salty breeze, but now, it’s gone.

He took away my pain.

Torryn looks down the bridge of his nose at me, obviously pleased with what he has done. In his drunken state, Torryn revealed another one of his powers. Something he had insisted upon avoiding from the beginning.

“You know, he’s probably so proud of himself—dressing you in his court’s colors.” Torryn leans towards me conspiratorially. “Little does he know that pale blue is my favorite color.”

I look down at my dress and then back at him. “Who—the dress—"

My mental spiral is broken when Sar opens the door, popping her head through.

A question is apparent on her face, but I ignore it. Leaving Torryn at the edge of the balcony, I move to slip past her, but she stops me with a hand at my wrist.

“Is everything okay?”

“No, he’s drunk. It is not okay.”

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