Page 52 of The Courting of Bristol Keats
She grinned. “Fairly? Now, that’s a lukewarm compliment I will forever treasure. Actually, I was enormously brave.”
His eyes sparked with something that wasn’t anger. “Your modesty is astounding.”
“So nice to see you’re impressed at last.”
His gaze fluttered downward for a moment. “Is that what you’ve been trying to do? Impress me?”
She thought for a moment. “Yes,” she admitted. “I suppose I have. I want you on my side. Truly on my side. I’m on yours. I meant what I said about your brother, and I promise more artwork for my sisters had nothing to do with it. I’ll do whatever I can to help you, no matter how things turn out for my father.”
He raked his teeth over his lower lip. “I’m sorry for what I said about the art. It was a cheap shot.”
Bristol smiled. “Cheap shot? Is that fairy slang, too?”
“I told you, I read. Even some of your modern works.”
She studied him for a moment, then motioned to the bench beside her. “Would you like to sit?”
A crease instantly formed between his brows. “No. I need to go back. The king is expected at evening celebrations.”
“As are recruits, right?”
“Yes,” he answered. “But you can come along when you’re ready.”
No tricks or demands like the previous night? And had she just procured an apology? Before he could turn to leave, she asked, “Is this new for you, going to the nightly celebrations? How long have you been the acting king?”
“I . . . It doesn’t really—” He exhaled a slow breath. “Six months,” he said. “At least officially. I was crowned while I was mostly unconscious. There was an . . . incident, and I was injured. But even when I came to long enough to accept the crown—” He cleared his throat. “For another month, I was unable to rule properly. My recovery came with challenges.”
“Did your long recovery have something to do with the scar on your side?” The scar she wasn’t supposed to see. She immediately regretted her question.
Muscles in his neck tightened.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked—”
“Yes,” he answered. “It had to do with the scar you saw. I was stabbed and nearly gutted. I guess that’s evident by its size.”
“But the scar?” she replied. “Today, Olivia healed the wound on my arm in minutes with a few words and salve. There’s not even a scratch now. Can’t they—”
“This scar can’t be erased with salves or words. It’s permanent. It was made by a blade of demon steel. No magic can undo it.”
“A demon stabbed you?”
Her question burned in the silence between them, seconds ticking by. “A demon would be easier for me to accept,” he finally answered. “Unfortunately, it was one of our own. A traitor. He acquired the rare blade from a Fomorian enemy.”
She asked what made it rare, and he said it was forged for over a thousand years by a thousand different demons. “Every swing of their hammer seals in the demon’s torment. The blade’s cut leaves . . . a memorable mark.”
Memorable in what way?Bristol wondered. She was certain he wasn’t talking about the physical mark it left. “Being stabbed by one of your own must have made it even harder,” she said. “Was he a knight?”
He looked away, studying the boughs of the hazel tree. Bristol was well acquainted with the art of turning away when hard things had to be said, the art of avoiding someone’s eyes because they might see something inside you that you were desperately trying to hide.
He plucked a green hazelnut from an overhead bough and examined it like it was made of gold. “Yes, a knight,” he said. “My best friend, actually. That’s why I was caught off guard. I let my defenses down. He was the last person I ever expected—” He faced her again, his eyes now drilling into hers. “He stabbed me and left me on the forest floor to die. That’s how I got the scar you saw. Other than the sorcerers who attended me, you’re the only one who’s seen it. That’s why I’m telling you. I’d prefer it if you didn’t share what you saw.”
His expression was blank, tired, like the thought of what happened to him had wrung him dry. A heavy weight settled in Bristol’s chest.Thatwas the anger always simmering in him. He’d been stabbed by someone he loved. Someone he trusted.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Of course, I won’t say anything. You’re right. I don’t know you. I can’t begin to know what you’ve been through.”
“You aren’t expected to. What’s done is done. It’s in the past.”
But it’s not done, Bristol thought. It was poison still rushing in his veins. Was that another purpose of his anger—to keep everyone at a safe distance? Because if you couldn’t trust your best friend, who could you trust?
