Page 45 of The King's Man 4

His voice is soft, and I curl my fingers around his to stop him taking it off.

“Your gloves,” he murmurs.

I hide my hand by sliding it around his waist.

“I’ll get you new ones.” His voice turns throaty. “When I saw your cloak over Dimos’s body...” His fingers draw down my hair to where I’d hastily pinned the clasp to my shirt. “I’m glad.”

I don’t remember doing it. I was too lost in all that was happening; I’d moved on instinct.

Like I’m doing now, sinking into the nooks of his body. I can hear his heart. It thumps as hard as mine.

We stay like this, holding one another, until the dimness of the room becomes darkness. My breath catches. There’s something about Quin’s protective embrace, the soft weight of his gaze, that leaves me feeling... understood.

“What do you think we’re doing?” he asks quietly.

My breathing becomes jerky and I fight through it and squeeze Quin tighter. “You promised as long as it’s my dream, you’ll support me. I had a hard day. Keep holding me.”

His fingers still against my hair for a second, then continue their lazy stroking.

“How full was that bottle?”

I shrug. “Both full.”

He sighs, his chest rising and falling, taking me along with it.

I’m rising again when Quin’s breath stops on a sudden groan. He drops the hand at my ear to his thigh. I draw my weight off him, and he hisses, his face contorting as he tries to withstand the pain.

“Cramp?”

“‘is fine,” he gasps. “Will pass soon.”

I press a palm above his knee and at his hip and help stretch the muscle. “Stand.” I support him up with an arm around his waist. “Put a little pressure on the leg, I’ve got you.”

He does and grunts again. I clutch him tighter as he bears through it and soon his face stops scrunching. “Better.”

Barely. I help him to the bed and he collapses onto it. “I’ll bring you something for the pain.”

Quin gestures to the bottle of liquor. “That’ll do.”

I grimace but comply. A few swigs has a numbing effect—too much has a tendency to impair memory, which for unbearable pain might be a good thing.

He takes a deep drink and I set the bottle on the floor. “How often has this been happening?”

“It’s always painful.”

“I mean like this, these cramps? The poison makes them excruciating. I know it does.”

Quin drops his head back against the pillow.

“You’ve been overdoing it,” I continue, “rushing around the city, solving mysteries. You need to sit more. You—”

“—have things to do. Places to be.”

“You’re not resting your leg enough.”

“I must keep using it, no matter how painful.”

His words slam into my chest and I stare at my hands, the frayed thread of my gloves. I understand. I’d also use any fraction of magic no matter how much pain I’d suffer.

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