Page 50 of Bloodguard

I ease upward to drink, and as I shift, the soft sheet skims along my bare skin. The moment she passes the water to me, I gulp it down. Pain continues to throb and stab at me in various places, but the intense burning has abated.

With my bandaged hands, I lift the covers and have a look at what remains of me. I’m clean, and except for the dressings covering multiple parts of my body, I’m naked.

“Well now, Princess. You’ve been busy,” I say. I let the covers drop. “Did you havefun…cleaning me up?”

She blushes and yanks the goblet from my grasp, considering, most likely, whether to cave my skull in with it. She fills the goblet instead, so the water skims along the rim. She doesn’t offer it right away. Instead, she smirks, and I swear to the moon, I’ve never seen a sweeter sight.

“Who’s Dahlia?” she asks as she hands me the water. “You spoke of her while you slept, and something about a rose.”

I take several long gulps, giving myself time to decide what to tell her. “Someone special,” I say.

Maeve’s features dissolve into blankness, although I don’t immediately understand why. She glances down. “I see,” she says, forcing a laugh. “As a gladiator, you probably have lots of…fans?”

Is that what we’re calling them?

“Yes. I have fans. Most of us do.” Not all of them are sexual, as Maeve’s implying. Some of the wealthier attendants genuinely want to reward us for our efforts. A dwarf named Wilestu treats the victors to a feast once a month. I think he does it more for the inside track on who to bet for or against, but it doesn’t change the fact that he is generous and friendly.

“So, she is one of your fans, then…”

Wariness keeps me from explaining, even to her. Any information someone has about my family is information they could use against me. I didn’t survive these years in Arrow by pretending that ulterior motives don’t exist among the aristocracy.

Maeve passes me the goblet once more, her gaze lowered after my blatant non-reply. “Don’t drink too much, though,” she warns. “Pasha is preparing supper now.”

I adjust my position to better sit, and she hurries to help me. She props the pillows behind me, trying to make me comfortable. She’s strong, and although I can manage on my own, I allow it. I feel like I owe her for, I don’t know, letting her think Dahlia and maybe Rose are more than my sweet little sisters? I’m not trying to vex her—she just saved my life. Again. But I’m more interested in why she’s so curious. She’s a princess of Arrow. She can have anyone and anything.

“How long have I been asleep?” I ask.

“Almost three days,” she replies, her voice oddly hesitant.

“Did anyone collect my winnings?” I ask.

“Father did the day following your last match.” She falls perfectly still. “You want your earnings to go to Dahlia?”

My voice lowers to a murmur. “I do.”

Her cheeks flush. She reaches for the pitcher again, then must remember she told me not to have more. She shoves her hands into the pockets of her nightrobe as if unsure what to do with them.

“Where or how should I get your winnings to her?” Maeve asks.

“There are messenger hawks trained to travel abroad and to specific realms. It’s a service we pay for.”

“I’ve never heard of that service,” Maeve replies. “The only messenger hawks I’m familiar with are the ones that drop the weapons into the arena.”

Why would she be? Arrow’s royals have everything. They don’t share with other realms, and they certainly don’t send their own mail.

“All right,” she says. “I’ll make arrangements to send your earnings to Grey.”

The unbending discipline I pride myself on evaporates the more I take her in.

Shadows ring her eyes from lack of sleep. In the recesses of my mind, I recall her voice—whispers of encouragement and maybe some light swearing. Her nightgown and bare feet suggest she’s slept here and…possibly never left my side.

A section of hair drifts slowly down and falls against her cheek. I hook my finger around it and gently bring it behind her ear, my hand lingering there.

“I don’t think Dahlia would like us this close,” she whispers.

I caress her face, her entire body stiffening as my knuckles glide over her soft cheek. “Dahlia won’t mind, and neither will Rose,” I say. “Trust me.”

If there was ever a time she was going to punch me in the skull, this is it.

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