Page 21 of Kissed By the Gods
Nyrica takes my broken hand in his and whistles. “Shattered every bone in your hand, love. How in the Veil did you do that?”
I lift my good hand and vaguely gesture in Ryot’s direction. “He did it.”
“She touched them,” Ryot snaps. “I had to break the contact.”
Nyrica kind oftsksas he rubs one of the ointments on my hand. I crinkle my nose at the musky smell—leaves and the forest floor. “You can’t be too hard on her. You know how they pull you in.”
Ryot’s mouth flattens into a hard, unforgiving line as he glares at me.
Nyrica sighs. “You’re making my patient uncomfortable, Ryot.”
Ryot doesn’t speak, but he doesn’t stop his glaring, either.
Nyrica’s voice turns commanding in a way I hadn’t expected from someone who calls me “love” with the warmth of a sunbeam. “If you’re going to stand there breathing tension into the room, go breathe it somewhere else.”
Ryot doesn’t move at first. Then, finally, he pushes away from the wall. His eyes fall on me. They’re hard and unreadable. Then he turns and walks away, his boots echoing against the stone floor.
My hand tingles and then goes numb, as Nyrica grabs a clean cloth from the bag at his feet. He works carefully, wrapping my fingers one by one. The pain hasn’t faded; it’s only changed shape so that it’s dull.
“He didn’t want to leave,” I murmur. I’m not sure if it’s an observation, an accusation, or something closer to a confession.
Nyrica doesn’t look up. “No.” He ties the bandage tight around my wrist with a deftness that makes me think he’s done this more times than either of us could count. “He’s worried about you.”
I scoff under my breath. “He dragged me here like I was a prisoner.”
Nyrica’s lips tip up in a smile. He finishes tying the cloth, then rests my wrapped hand on my lap. He doesn’t move away, though. He just sits back on his heels and watches me with dark green eyes full of entirely too much empathy. “From the little I’ve heard, you are.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “You don’t know anything about it.”
Nyrica snorts out a laugh. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”
He begins packing away his kit. My fingers throb beneath the cloth, and I try to focus on the sensation. It keeps me anchored, stops me from thinking about everything else I’ve lost in the last few days.
The infirmary door opens with a soft creak.
I glance up, expecting a healer, maybe a guard, or Ryot again. Instead, a woman steps inside, tall and regal. Her white hair is braided into a flawless crown, with golden ribbons woven through the strands. Her robe is a deep violet trimmed with gold, and though she’s surrounded by four men, it’s clear she’s the one in charge. Her eyes—so light blue they’re almost colorless—land on me. She says nothing at first, only takes another step into the room, and then four guards file in behind her.
Nyrica, still crouched by my side, doesn’t look up from packing his little bag as he speaks. “The infirmary isn’t your usual stomping grounds, your highness.”
My eyes jerk up at the title. Highness? My gaze refocuses on that braid—that’s a crown woven throughout, not merely gold ribbon.
“You were supposed to be at the debriefing on Carrisfal,” she says, and her voice is as ice-cold as her eyes.
“I was, but then Ryot handed me an injured girl with rotted fingers and said ‘fix her.’ You’ll forgive me for prioritizing.” The way he says it—so light, so entirely lacking in deference—makes something inside me twist. I wait for her to snap at him, to dress him down, or have one of her guards step forward, but she doesn’t.
Her expression doesn’t change, not even by a fraction. But her shoulders stiffen, in the tiniest increments. She narrows her eyes when she looks at me again, this time more directly.
“So, this is the farm girl Ryot brought back.” There’s no warmth in her gaze, no sympathy. Just confusion laced with faint disdain, like she’s trying to calculate what about me merited an Altor dragging me into their world.
The words land like a slap. I sit a little straighter despite every part of me aching and open my mouth to tell her off. I don’t know what I plan to say—something reckless, something stupid—but Nyrica gets there first.
“Oh, come off it, Rissa. You don’t sound royal when you say that. You sound like a bitch.”
Rissa. The name rings through my skull. Holy Veil. This is Rissa? The heir to the throne of Faraengard?
Her lips twist. It’s not the first time someone’s called her a bitch. Sympathy almost stirs. Almost. But then she opens her mouth again.
“The girl doesn’t even kneel. I suppose ignorance really is confidence,” she says over my head. My back straightens, just as she turns on a booted heel. “You’re expected in the archons’ chambers,” she says to Nyrica. “Now.”
