Page 31 of Bound to the Shadow Prince

“Drink this.”

A low, rumbling voice wakes me from feverish dreams. This time, it’s not the hand of the goddess that’s lifting me up, but a warm touch and a light scrape of claws as I’m pressed against a hard chest. My eyes flutter and I catch a glimpse of gray skin and broad muscle—and a far too bright light behind him. I squeeze my eyes shut again, because everything hurts.

“Princess.” Nemeth’s voice is cajoling. “I made this especially for you. You must get something in your belly or you’ll be sick again. Drink this for me.”

I lick my lips—or try to—but my tongue is dry and there’s no moisture. I think about that blinding light. “Are we…outside?”

“Alas, no. Is the light too strong? You said you liked it so I wanted it to be bright in here for you.”

“Hurts my eyes,” I manage. “Hurts my head, too.”

I’m gently set down on the bed again, and then I hear a tap tap, followed by another tap tap. Nemeth’s large form sits on theedge of the bed again, the frame groaning with effort, and then that gentle hand lifts me upright once more. “Better?”

I squeeze an eye open and there’s no stab of light this time. Thank goodness. I blink, trying to focus my gaze, but all I see is Nemeth’s green eyes in the darkness. His face is perilously close to mine, and I worry that he’s going to kill me. A whimper escapes.

“I made you a broth,” he says. “You have to drink it.”

A cup is held to my lips and I take a hesitant sip. Flavor bursts on my tongue, and I moan at how good it is. And he made this for me? He’s not trying to kill me? He’s…taking care of me? I try to take a large gulp, but he pulls the cup away and I whine in protest.

“Small sips,” he tells me. “You can’t have much. You’ve been sick and I don’t want you losing it all again.”

Losing it all…again? Oh no. I know when I miss my potion, my stomach tends to rebel. Have I puked all over him? And he’s just trying to take care of me? I grimace at the realization. He probably hates me more than ever now. I take another sip when he offers it to me, savoring the flavor and the warmth of it. How long has it been since I’ve had a warm meal of my own? At least a week, since the last time I made my potion and hastily made a quick soup of vegetables and meat while I had the fire going. Mine is never as good as this, though, and each time he lifts the cup to my lips, I drink more.

I want to protest when he pulls it away, but then I’m offered a cup of water and that’s just as delicious. I drink as much as I can, and sigh with relief when I’m done. “Thank you.”

There’s no response to my words, and my skin prickles with awareness. He gently sets me back down into the bedding again, and even though I’m exhausted, my mind races. The thick blanket that’s pulled over me is not mine. The wide, hard bedtick I lie upon? Not mine. My weak hands brush over my chest,reaching for my knife, but it’s not there. I’m not wearing my bodice or my dresses, nothing but a thin chemise.

And I’m too weak to do anything about it.

I can’t decide if he’s going to kill me or exact his revenge in other ways. “I’m in your quarters,” I point out, unnecessarily.

“You are. It seemed a good idea since you collapsed at my door after trying to murder me. No sense in going upstairs.” There’s a touch of reproach in his voice. “Not that you have a lot upstairs that you’ll be missing.”

Terrible, horrible Fellian. “Where is my knife?”

“Safely out of reach. You can have it back when I’m assured you won’t slip it into my ribs the moment I turn aside.”

“It was a gift from my sister. I want it returned.”

“And it will be. Right now you just need to rest.”

“Inyourbed?”

He snorts. “If I wanted you, I’d want you willing and healthy, not sickly and weeping.”

I clench my jaw at his irritatingly arrogant words. “I don’t weep.” Of course, the moment I say that, I think of how I broke down and sobbed when I couldn’t tear my sled apart, and that he watched me cry. Bastard. I hate that he saw me in my weakest moment.

“Next you’ll be telling me you don’t get sick when the proof is all over my clothes,” he says, voice dry. Those green eyes lean in close in the darkness, and then gentle fingers brush a lock of hair off my brow. “Just rest. You can pick a fight with me when you feel better.”

Am I picking a fight? He’s the enemy. We’ve been at odds since we got here. He’s a thief and a liar, and yet here he is, tucking the blankets around me and feeding me soup. I want to say more, but I’m exhausted. I close my eyes.

Before I drift off, a claw rubs against my cheek. “How often do you need your medicine? So I know when to give it again?”

“Once a day,” I mumble. “In the arm.”

“I’ll remember. Rest now.”

Chapter

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