Page 17 of A Delicate Conquest

She reached the doorway and peered through into the abyss beyond, leaning against the frame and putting her weight onto her good foot.

She saw the two of them—embraced by shadow, caught in some inexplicable dance.

Mavrel’s hand was around Zharek’s throat.

Zharek’s expression was a mixture of alarm, smugness, and indignance—a face that would have been impossible for a human to make.

“Ahem…” She cleared her throat, wondering if she should just slowly back away and leave them to it.

Mavrel dropped Zharek like a hot potato. The medic quickly ducked out of reach, gracefully stepping away.

“Uh… I did not realize…” Mavrel blinked several times, looking at Bea in confusion. His mouth opened, but no words came out.

He seemed surprised to see her.

He took a deep breath, his nostrils flaring. A great shudder passed through him, and he closed his eyes briefly.

He seemed uncomfortable.

She decided to help him out of whatever was causing him so much misery.

“Hello,” she said softly.

“Uh, hello.” Mavrel’s entire demeanor changed, reminding Bea of a fierce hound that had suddenly encountered a being it was fond of.

“Um, is it a Kordolian thing to resolve your differences like this? Should I come back later?”

Zharek looked a little too pleased with himself. Bea had a suspicion he’d provoked Mavrel.

“N-no.” Mavrel’s gaze dropped to her injured leg. Bea’s foot was off the floor. “You’re hurt. You shouldn’t even be standing.”

He shot Zharek the meanest glare Bea had ever seen and rushed to her side.

Before she could make sense of what was happening, she was whisked off her feet.

He lifted her into his arms as if she were as light as a leaf.

“Hey,” Bea squeaked, too shocked to summon the requisite outrage. “Y-you don’t have to—”I mean, it’s just a sprained ankle. It isn’t as if I’m mortally wounded.

“I do. My lack of control interrupted and delayed your treatment.” He held her close for a moment, and Bea became acutely aware of how strong and hard his body felt.

His lean, graceful appearance was deceiving.

Mavrel set her down in the chair and abruptly put distance between them—as if he’d been burned by touching her. When he spoke, his voice was soft—so different from the way he’d growled at the medic, but he’d always been this way with her. “Zharek will heal your injury. I’ll fix your shoe. Don’t worry. It won’t take long. You’ll have plenty of time to enjoy the Cultural Event yet.”

He turned and glared at Zharek, who was hanging back in the doorway, quietly observing them.

Mavrel said something to the medic in harsh, rapid-fire Kordolian.

Bea almost felt sorry for Zharek. She considered telling Mavrel to go easy on him, but then again, she didn’t really knowwhat had transpired between these two, so she decided to keep her mouth shut as it was really none of her business.

Mavrel was looking at her funny again—as if her presence caused him pain.

What the hell?

“I’m not usually prone to violence,” he admitted. “It’s just thathehas a tendency to interfere in the most infuriating way while knowing exactly what he’s doing. I’m… sorry you had to witness that.”

Before Bea had a chance to respond, Mavrel disappeared, leaving her utterly confused and strangely exhilarated.

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