I blink my eyes open and frown at him. “No.”

“It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

I don’t want to take his comfort. I want to punch him for seeing me in such a state, but I let him gather me against his chest and hold the ice to my head.

It doesn’t fix the pain, but the steady rhythm of his heart does add a sort of focal point for it. I sense his magic gently flowing through me, and while I know it won’t do anything to ease the anguish, it does help my muscles relax between the most intense moments of it.

It feels good to be held—to relax and pretend his comfort is a simple thing I could reach for like a habit.

This is the most dangerous kind of fantasy—the kind that doesn’t become less compelling even when you know it’s manipulation. If I’m not careful, I might stop loathing my husband.

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44HENRY

Harlow is going to be so angry when she wakes up and realizes she’s slept the entire night beside me. I carried her from the bathroom floor to her bed in the middle of the night, when the worst of her shaking had stopped and the pain was stable.

Now she’s splayed out beside me, her hand resting in mine.

She’s still hurting. I can feel it like a pulse beneath her skin. Last night it was much worse, but this is still the kind of anguish that would be impossible to ignore. I’ve never felt anything quite like it, but I’ve never treated anyone with attacks like these at the fort.

She spent hours last night writhing in agony. Now she’s still, but her muscles are tight, still braced for pain that hasn’t abated. How long do these attacks typically last, and how does she endure their seemingly random and sudden arrival?

She stirs, cracks one eye open, and groans. She pulls her hand out of my grip.

“Good morning, lovely. You look radiant.” It’s irritating that this is the worst I’ve ever seen her look, and she’s still so beautiful.

“Don’t you have something better to do?” Her voice is raspy from sleep. The sound of it, combined with the sight of her mussed hair, makes me want to messy her more.

Instead, I hand her a glass of water, help her sit up, and watch her throat bob as she swallows it down.

“Something better than tending to my grumpy, ailing wife? No. I don’t have anything better to do than be the recipient of your biting wit. How are you feeling?”

“Like my brain has been trying to outgrow my skull all night. Tense. Exhausted.” She lies back and presses the heels of her hands to her temples.

Clearly, the soft side of her has been chased away by the morning light, and I expect her to be especially ornery to make up for last night.

“Is there anything that helps other than ice?”

“I’m not a problem to be solved, Henry,” she snaps. “Everyone always wants to do something about it. The last thing I need is to endure a bunch of poking and prodding so you can feel helpful.”

“I’m not trying to solve you, but I’m happy to do some poking and prodding if you think it will improve your mood,” I say with a smirk.

She groans and rolls over.

I swipe the slip of paper from the nightstand and hold it up. “I have something for you. Someone slipped it under the door earlier.”

She rolls over, takes the note from my hand, and sits up, immediately pressing a palm to her forehead until the blood rush abates. She reads the note and freezes.

“What is it?”

I look over her shoulder at the note in her hands.

I left white roses for her.

“What does it mean?” I ask.

Harlow waves a dismissive hand. “He means he left them for Aidia. They’re her favorite. If I dropped them off, Rafe would throw them away, but Gaven knows the servants at North Hold and he can slip in and out without Rafe noticing. He usually takes roses over once a week.”

I frown. “Then what’s the issue?”

She shakes her head and blows out a breath. “I knew the handwriting on the letter last night was familiar. I just couldn’t place it. If you hadn’t been such a brute and dropped it in the fire, I could have compared it.”

I stare at her, trying to follow her thinking. “You think Gaven is Rochelli?”

She frowns and tilts her head to the side. “I don’t, but it’s not out of the question that he could somehow be involved. Gaven has unique access to the comings and goings of my family and is intimately aware of how things function in Lunameade. He has to be. There is no corner of the city he doesn’t know, and he can come into our home, stand outside the doors where we talk about family issues, and attend all high house events as my guard.” She pulls her hair over one shoulder and twists it around a finger. “Honestly, I don’t really see it. He’s loyal to my father first.”

“If that was true, wouldn’t he rat you out for all your sneaking around?” I ask. “What if your father attacked you? If what you’re saying is true, Gaven wouldn’t protect you.”

She stills, her eyes flashing with something unreadable. “How do you think I’m so certain?”

It’s as good as a confession, though I can tell from the look on her face it’s not one she’s happy to part with. It’s as I suspected. The scars on her back are from her father. What I didn’t suspect was that I would feel this disquieting, creeping rage in my chest, or that it would be directed at her bodyguard as much as her father.

“Don’t give me that look.” She holds up a hand. “It’s been a very long time, and I prefer your intense loathing to pity.”

I consider everything she’s said. If Gaven is working with the rebels, then he would have been paying extra close attention before the explosion at our engagement dinner. Maybe that’s how he noticed I heard the shout outside to take cover and reacted just before the explosion. But if that were the case, why was he so suspicious of me? That skepticism was instant and genuine. Harlow wasn’t aware enough to pay attention to the performance.

Harlow presses the heels of her hands to her eyes again and sighs. “How long until noon?”

“A few hours.”

She lies back, sets the note on her bedside table, and tugs the blankets up over her shoulders. “I could probably rest for a bit and then be ready to travel back today.”

“No. It’s a rough journey and we could be set upon by a horde again. We’ll wait until it abates,” I say.

“It might be a while,” she says.

“Then it will be a while,” I say. “Are you always this impatient with yourself?”

She rubs her temples. “I’m always this impatient with the pain.”

I’ve never met an ailment I couldn’t ease in some way. This helplessness is new and frustrating.

She rolls onto her side. “I really can push through if we need to get back. I’m used to ignoring it when it’s not that bad. My mother has always said I bear it better than most.”

I tilt her chin up so she’ll meet my eyes. “Just because you can bear your pain better doesn’t mean you should have to. We will wait until you’re well. It takes as long as it takes.”

She closes her eyes and sighs. I rub her back gently and focus my magic on releasing the tension in the muscles of her neck and shoulders.

After a few minutes, her breathing is soft and even again.

Elvodeen’s healing blessing has granted me one of the most practical magics that exists, but I’ve never really appreciated bringing someone relief until now.

A soft knock on the bedroom door startles me. I take one last look at Harlow’s soft, sleeping face before climbing out of the bed and tugging on my robe.

I open the door and squint into the morning light pouring in through the hall windows.

Gaven has abandoned his post and stationed himself at the end of the hall. Kellan stands in his place.

He smiles brightly. His face is all of the softness absent in Harlow’s. Though his hair is dark like hers, his eyes are lighter, and the skin around them crinkles when he smiles. Everything about his expression reads genuine, whereas Harlow’s expressions are masked unless she’s annoyed.