Page 18 of Healer to the Ash King
“You seemed fairly helpless during the attack yesterday.”
“That was—I was taken by surprise.”
“As we all were. Yet Teagan managed to draw a weapon and fight back.”
Something vicious uncurls in my heart. “Teagan isn’t a healer. I’m sworn to help, not to harm, unless I’m defending someone else.”
“Or yourself.”
“Yes—I suppose.” But I don’t sound convincing.
His upper lip curls, a spark in his eye. “Kitten.”
I strike back with the only barb I have left, one I’ve been reserving. “Perhaps Your Majesty is nervous because he’s afraid of repeating the past.”
The Ash King’s eyes flare scarlet, roiling with flame. He lunges for me, gripping my shoulder and pushing me away from the table, back against the wall of the torture room. His hot fingers clutch my chin. “What do you mean by that?” he hisses.
There is water on the floor, a small puddle the servant didn’t mop up thoroughly. I draw it to myself, creating a liquid ball that I cradle in my palm in case I need it.
“You can’t always control it, can you?” I whisper. “Sometimes it’s too strong.”
“I am the King,” he says hoarsely, his breath hot against my face. “I am always in control. Of myself, of everyone in this city, in this kingdom. And I’m in control ofyou.”
He presses tighter to me, until I can feel the surge of his chest against my own. The stiff lapels of his coat rub against my breasts, a rough graze through the light fabric of my shirt, and my nipples peak at the contact. I should have worn a full corset today. My body is suddenly alight, quivering with raw, scintillating sensation.
The Ash King still has my chin in his hand, my face tipped up to his.
“Yes, you’re in control, Majesty,” I breathe, because it’s the only smart thing to say. Teagan warned me to be subservient and quiet. Why couldn’t I listen to her?
But as the King himself reminded me, I’m not Teagan. I’m the grimy girl who showed up to his summons in her underthings. No wonder he was shocked at the sight of me. As the memory surfaces in my mind, I can’t help it—I smirk a little, in spite of my furiously pounding heart.
“Don’t,” he says, breathless, his eyes dropping to my mouth.
“You said smiling was allowed,” I whisper.
“When you smile, I feel as if there is happiness quivering on your lips, just here.” He brushes my mouth with the tip of his thumb. “And if I want it, all I have to do is…”
His mouth dips toward mine.
The man on the table groans suddenly, loudly.
The Ash King throws himself backward, his eyes wide and alarmed as if he can’t believe what he almost did. Which makes two of us.
“Do your work well,” he snaps, and then he’s gone.
For the next two hours I work over the torture victim, repairing the rest of his tongue, regrowing his thumbs and toenails, healing all his bruises. By the end he is fully awake, quietly awed by what I have done for him.
The Ricter who measured me early this morning comes in to watch me finish the process, and he checks over my work. He’s an elderly man, a kinder sort than most Ricters I’ve met. He rakes gnarled fingers through his gray beard and nods. “Excellent work, excellent. You will do well with the Favored. Are you tired, child?”
I’m exhausted. My wells of healing energy are deep, but this task has nearly emptied them. “Yes, I am tired.”
“I’m told there is refreshment in the gardens for the Favored and their ladies. The King said you would be permitted to meet the women you’ll care for, or if you prefer, that you might venture into the city with a guard as your companion. The guard is just outside to escort you wherever you’d like to go.”
“What of this man?” I gesture to the victim. “Will he be released?”
“I believe he will be imprisoned, my lady. He is a spy from Cheimhold, so he cannot be set free. But he will not be tortured again.”
The man on the table is watching me, and I meet his gaze. He’s in his mid-thirties, with a patchy brown beard and eyes full of gratitude.
