Page 54 of The King's Queen

“Are you alright?” Is the only slightly intelligible thing that comes to mind as I try to fill the silence. Rowan’s labored breathing causes a physical pain in my chest. I know he must have gone through much worse to collect the scars I’ve seen him wear proudly, but still, I did this. I did this.

Rowan laughs a bit. “Never been better, sunshine.”

I can’t find anything to laugh about in the moment. My lower lip quivers, and my shoulders cave in on themselves. No tears fall, but dry sobs wrack my chest. Torin was right, all of this happened because of one greedy princess.

Rowan moves with a speed I didn’t think he could still possess and wraps his arms around my wet and shaking frame. It is stiff, his motions not as languid as before, just another reminder of the pain I’ve caused him.

“Why did you come back?” I dare not say anything above a rasping whisper for fear my voice may betray me. “Why would you come for me?”

Rowan’s arms fall from my shoulders to encircle my waist, his head now resting heavily on his shoulders. Why would he have done it? He could’ve died. He could’ve…

“I couldn’t stop myself.” He drew in a ragged breath. “I heard your screams, and I… I couldn’t stop myself from running to you. Couldn’t help but think that if something happened I- I’d never forgive myself.”

He lifts his head from my shoulder.

“Because you make this sort of life bearable, Vera. And I want you, no, Ineedyou,” he brings his lips close to mine, “to stay.”

To stay, with him and Kya, Amír, Derrín. To be a Nightwalker. A home, someone to stay.

But do I deserve this?

My body shudders, cold against his own- warm and slick with blood. His blood. He lowers his hand from my face, silent understanding passing between us. It’s enough to make me sob again.

“I’m s-sorry,” I blubber between blood-encrusted lips. The words taste metallic. “I just can’t right now, not with his blood on me.”

Blood-crusted hair falls loose around my face, a personal curtain between Rowan and me. I can’t bear it, not the look of pity or disgust he probably wears. Not the disappointment.

But rather, a calloused hand grips my own, a second raising up to my jaw. He hooks his finger under my chin, gently raising my gaze to his own. To my shock, I find only deep and unwavering understanding.

“Don’t ever apologize to me. Not for that.” My throat constricts as he lowers his hand again, but he still grips mine, his thumb tracing lazy circles across the back of it.

“I will wait for you.”

His gaze drops to my hand as he holds it, then slowly he raises it to his lips, stopping just close enough that his breath scatters across the top. His emerald green eyes lift up again to meet mine, a request.

“May I?”

A small smile tries to tug at the corners of my mouth as I nod my head and whisper a “yes.” Rowan seems to notice because he smiles into the kiss he presses atop my hand.

His lips feel exactly how I imagined them, soft and gentle, yet a silent hunger lurks beneath them. My faces flushes a light pink as I imagine what it will feel like for those lips capture my own. I’ve dreamt of it, I want that so desperately, but I just can’t. Not now. I hate to ask this of him, but he will wait, I know it, even if it kills him.

There’s a soft knock at the door, assumably more for our comfort than announcing herself given there is no real door, not from the outside. The doctor steps in, her hair pinned tightly to her scalp in such a way that pulls all of her pretty features into a tight countenance. Her thin lips press firmly together as she lays her equipment out across the mahogany table. She begins to sanitize her tools with no glimpse of a smile or small talk.

She moves towards Rowan first, but he shakes his head and motions for me to take a seat. I oblige as she begins to assess my visible wounds.

“You will have to take that dress off.”

Rowan promptly excuses himself from the room.

The doctor’s skilled hands are cold as she lays them against my mottled skin. Occasionally she will tut to herself or scribble something on a scrap sheet of paper. She makes no comment on my blood.

After a while she finally deduces that my wounds are not horribly severe, mostly a few shallow cuts and deep bruises. The smoke I inhaled won’t cause any issues. However, slamming my head into the carriage benches left me with a nasty concussion. She advises that I avoid any strenuous activities, jarring motions, loud noises, bright lights, and reading for a few weeks.

“Thank you.”

She dismisses me to the bath with a disinterested flick of her wrist and goes to fetch Rowan from the broom closet, where he has been hiding this whole time. I scoff slightly at the slight but forget my offense as soon as I spot the pristine bathtub in the center of the room.

It is almost cathartic, watching the multicolored blood streak and run in muddy whorls from my limbs. Within moments, the once clear water is a ruddy brown, and I haven’t even dunked my head under the water. I empty the basin and refill it again, and then twice more before the water runs clear, and I step out. A fluffy towel sits on the edge of the sink, and I run it across my skin and hair, frowning when it comes back clean. It doesn’t feel right, to take a life and not have to be stained with his blood for life. But would he have felt the same if it was my body they would find in the morning?

---