Page 65 of Tempting the Fae Lord
Furniture scrapes and slides. One by one, those I love most in the world tiptoe out into the hall and look around.
Blood, ice, water, and the tingling remnants of too much magic linger in the hallway. Amaris scrunches her little nose.
Eulayla hurries to my side and lays a hand on Gale’s cheek. “You’ve gone pale as a fresh snowfall, dear heart.”
“M’all right,” Gale mutters.
But he isn’t. His eyes are cloudy, and I’m relatively sure he’s broken at least one bone. Maybe several. His breathing is off-kilter as though his ribs are in pieces.
I clutch Gale closer. “Eulayla, that fae witch is not to be trusted, nor the human mage, at least not until we can break her hold on him. I must see to Gale. Take enough provisions for a few days and lock yourselves in the stronghold.”
Alarm flits through her gaze, but then her steadfast resolve overtakes it. “Yes, sir.”
“And hurry.”
“We will. Don’t worry about us. Keep yourself safe.” She glances at Gale. “I know I don’t have to tell you to keep him safe, but… keep him safe.”
“On my honor.”
I meet the steel in Eulayla’s gaze.
She nods and ushers the others toward the kitchens, doling out orders as she goes. “Marissa, gather the linens. Jack, carry the water. Chester, pack the food. Amaris?—”
I head the opposite direction, to the stairwell and up to my chambers, trusting them to hurry to the safety of the strongroom until this mess is sorted.
In my arms, Gale makes a pained sound and tenses.
I’ll kill Sonja for this.
Then perhaps I’ll have Petru raise her from the dead just to kill her again.
Chapter Twenty-One
Gale
Everything hurts,starting and ending with the pounding in my skull.
Ezra does his best not to jostle me, but every step raises my awareness of the pain in my arm, my side, my hip.
He carries me past my room, up another flight of stairs, and into his chambers. It’s a very rare occasion for any of us to set foot inside his personal space, although technically, I haven’t yet. My feet still dangle in the air. I moan. Even my bad jokes hurt my head in this state.
“Hold on, Mooncalf. Just a few moments more.”
Pressed against him as I am, I feel his voice as much as I hear it. The rumble of his chest soothes my nerves, even if it can’t touch the sore muscles and broken bones.
Are they broken?
They feel broken.
Without so much as a flick of his wrist, Ezra illuminates the room with fae lights. I take the opportunity to look around.
We’re in a sitting room of sorts, though the actual sitting furniture is covered in messy stacks of books and papers. A layer of dust coats the surface. He mustn’t use this room much.
He brings me through it and to the bedroom, which, though cluttered, isn’t dusty. Upon a large wooden desk are more books, each with markers poking out between the pages. A pen rests near a closed inkwell. Next to it lies an aged scroll held open with stones. The chair is half pulled out as though eagerly waiting for his return. Who knew I’d have something in common with a chair?
“How’s your head?” he asks.
“Hurts.” But truthfully, the chance to ogle his personal space is helping somewhat. A welcome distraction. Being in his arms is pretty nice too.
