Page 52 of Bloodguard

“Do you mean to tell me that there was a real bedroom, with a real bed, and you had me sleep on some old cot?”

I don’t admit that the cot was rather comfortable. It’s the principle, damn it.

“It’s not really a cot. It’s more like an old dog bed,” Maeve replies. She sighs dramatically. “Poor old Speckles. He likely rolled over in his grave, knowing you got fleas on it.”

I chuckle, but damn does it hurt. “Don’t make me laugh.”

I reach toward the small, cushioned chair to my right, where a clean pair of breeches lies folded. It shouldn’t be such a task, but it is, despite how I attempt to mask it.

“Leith, you’re too weak to leave your bed.”

Somehow, call it will or absolute stubbornness, I manage to pull on the breeches. I tie the drawstring—a hell of an accomplishment, considering how much the tight bandages along my hands restrict my movements.

I deal with the pain stabbing its way to my groin well enough, but it’s those pesky spots dancing across my line of sight that warn me any position other than supine is a bad idea. I tell the spots to fuck off and force myself to my feet.

Thank the phoenix that Maeve’s breasts are there to catch me when I fall forward.

All right. That’s not entirely true. Her hands shoot out to catch me and clasp my shoulders. My face lands against her generous bosom because gravity is a real thing, and sometimes, the stars do align in my favor.

Maeve gasps, but she doesn’t shove me away like I expect. No, rather than shove me off her, she holds me close. I close my eyes as the whole room spins.

We fall still, both of us taking our time to remember how to breathe. My cheek rests against the last few scars along her sternum, and my nose presses into the swell of her…yeah.Those.

Future kings don’t lick their way up a future queen’s throat to claim her mouth and probably everything else.

Despite how badly a future king may want to.

“Ah, Leith?” the future queen stammers.

“Mm?”

“D-did you…pass out?”

“Mm-hmm.”

She strangles out a laugh as I ease away from her, ignoring the insistence of my face to return to Maeve’s chest and to let my mouth linger there and then lower still.

I set my gaze on the wall and roll my shoulder, trying to gain a semblance of control.

“Fuck,” I say, clamping my jaw shut when what feels like shards of glass pierce through my arm. That damn shark and that equally wretched barb at the end of its tail must have shredded the muscle. It’s healing, and the bandage Maeve set holds tight, but it pinches like the stitches might split or the wound hasn’t fully closed.

The pain…it’s not so different from what’s weighed on me since Sullivan died. But for my sake, and Maeve’s, I must move forward in spite of how the dull pound along my skull increases in severity.

Maeve’s steady hold lessens as I straighten further. My feet bear my weight well enough, but it’s impossible not to favor one side.

“Leith, I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but you’re not ready to go anywhere.”

Pain pinches my features into a grimace I can feel. “If I don’t start to move, I won’t move enough when it matters.” I breathe in and out slowly, trying to fight through that next wave.

Maeve sighs. “This isn’t a good idea,” she says.

“Never said it was.” I lift my head. “Take me into the forest.”

Her eyes travel up and down my body. “Todie?”

“No,” I rumble, wondering what I look like to make her say that. “Just…take me someplace pretty.”

“Pretty?” she repeats.

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