Page 72 of Healer to the Ash King
Perhaps he didn’t entirely trust my words today, after all.
“By all means, speak to the Healer,” the Ash King says brusquely. “Enjoy some time together. And you must come back again sometime to visit with her. Gods know she has few friends in this place.”
He stalks out, leaving Rince and me alone. Well… alone with the ever-present guards.
I rise, meeting Rince halfway as he walks toward me. “Let’s go to my room,” I say, low.
I lead Rince through the palace, along the corridor of the central wing. Owin and another guard trail us watchfully.
When we reach my bedroom door, the second guard clears his throat. “Healer, it is a grave breach of security for anyone else to be allowed in the room adjoining the King’s. Only you and your maids are permitted in the Rose Room.”
“But you heard the King,” I say. “He gave us permission to enjoy some time together.” I lend a sultry significance to the words. “Would you prefer we do that here, in the hall?”
“No, my lady,” says the guard.
“You could post someone at the door between the rooms,” I suggest. “Just for a little while. This won’t take long. Never does, with this one.” I nudge Rince with my elbow.
He splays his fingers over his chest, assuming a look of mock offense. “My poor pride is wounded. Though I will say, speed does not matter as long as the object of the game is achieved for both players.”
“And you always win the game.” I give Rince my best adoring expression.
“Oh, let them go in,” Owin says to his fellow guard. “There are guards along the hall, and one of us can watch the inner door, as she said. I volunteer.”
“Naughty,” I gasp. “You want to listen.”
“Not so, my lady.” Owin gives me a wink. “I promise to cover my ears.”
The second guard yields, and I hurry Rince into my room before he can change his mind.
The moment the door closes behind us, I tug him to the bathing room and close that door, too. I turn on the spigot for the tub, push Rince against the wall, and rise on tiptoe, placing my mouth against his ear.
“What were you thinking, telling the King who you really are?” My words are barely audible, barely above a breath. I have no idea if the King is in his room or not, but I’m taking no chances.
Rince wraps my body in his arms, pulling me tight against him. His breath is soft and warm against my ear. “I had to be honest about my identity, Cailin. Do you think the King would trust the recommendation of a single guard and allow a complete stranger into the palace? No. When I was approached about showing my talents to the Favored, I knew I would be questioned and my records would be checked before they would allow me through the gates. So I told them my true name and origins, but not my current associations, of course. They examined my records thoroughly and searched me for weapons, but they underestimated the cleverness of the Undoing and its servants.” He pats the satchel at his side.
And then he has the nerve to kiss me. His soft lips seal over mine, and his tongue probes for entrance. I wait, moving my lips slightly, expecting to feel the same humming warmth and tingling excitement I always felt with him.
But I don’t. I feel—mildly pleasant at best.
I pull away, wiping my mouth. “I should give you the sketches and notes.”
“Yes, we should do that first.”
First? Does he really expect something intimate to happen between us before he leaves?
Am I going to allow it?
I turn off the water, and he follows me to the bedroom. I dig the notebook from its hiding place behind my headboard and pull out the pages I’ve finished. “It’s not much, but maybe it will help.”
“Thank you, Cailin.” He folds the pages small and tucks them into an inner pocket of his vest.
Then, slowly, he moves into my space.
I let Rince enfold me in his arms, and for a moment I relax against that familiar chest, breathing him in. But he smells different now. He’s not the boy who shifted from friend to something else on the day I turned sixteen, when he persuaded me to show him my breasts. He’s not the boy who put his fingers in me at seventeen, or who took my virginity on my eighteenth birthday. He’s not the boy whose body I learned and enjoyed for the next few years, until he left me.
He doesn’t smell like resin and rain-washed earth anymore. He smells liketobaksmoke, paste from his artwork, and an unfamiliar perfume.
“It’s good to see you,” I murmur. “But…” I look up at him, shaking my head.
