she was simply being picky, he spoke to Bell and had the poor Seraphian cooks spend two days learning to bake the pastries she loved.
Those also returned largely untouched. Along with her favorite soup, a tomato bisque. Her favorite breakfast food, biscuits lathered in gravy.
All of it untouched.
She was starving herself.
If he wasn’t trying to at least appear civilized for the others’ sake, he would throw her over his shoulder and force her to eat. To stop punishing herself for what happened in Solethenia. To forgive herself for Archeron’s betrayal. To stop blaming herself for every death that bastard claimed in her name.
But he couldn’t do that for her, and as much as he wanted to lock her away in a room and force her to take care of herself, he at least had the presence of mind to know what a terrible idea that was.
“Is it her?” Nasira’s voice drew him from his ruminations.
“What? Freya’s daughter?”
“No.” The skin around Nasira’s eyes tightened. “You know who I mean. Her. The one the blood augur mentioned.”
He went still. Completely, utterly still. “You know the rule. We don’t speak of that.”
“She is not immortal and—”
He growled.
“Stolas—”
“Enough.”
She flinched at his warning tone. Flinched—but stubbornly continued. “I refuse to let that happen. I don’t care what that lying augur said . . .”
Her words trailed away as Haven approached, and his shoulders loosened as he focused his attention on her. Some of the bruising beneath her eyes had faded, the healing waters working to mend her physical flesh, at least.
What lay beyond, though, that would take time. And he would be there for every step. Whatever she needed.
“Can you be ready to leave soon?” she asked by way of greeting. Of course she was trying to completely skip over what happened last night.
He narrowed his gaze at her. “The question is, can you?”
“I’m fine.” She ignored the string of skeptical grunts and curses Demelza uttered. The woman really did make cursing an art form.
“First we eat breakfast.” She went to argue, and all his plans to remain a gentleman fled. “You are going to eat, Haven, if I have to hold you down and force the food into that stubborn mouth of yours.”
Well, there it was, and he wasn’t sorry.
In his periphery he caught Nasira’s grin. Demelza stopped mid-grunt and gaped at him, her expression either furious or impressed—it was hard to read the damned woman.
Haven’s eyes flashed fire. “I’d like to see you try.”
“Would you now? Because we can arrange that . . . or you can simply march your obstinate ass to the food hall, give your mortal body what it so constantly requires—sustenance—and go about our day.”
“Would you have me go as is . . .” she tugged on the corner of the towel, highlighting how precariously it was wrapped around her body, “or can I at least dress first?”
He arched a brow. “Your choice. Although, Shadeling knows, the soldiers need something to wake them up this morning.”
Incredulity stretched those beautiful golden eyes wide, and he barely refrained from cracking a smile. That would only infuriate her more—an amusing but ultimately unhelpful turn of events that would defeat the purpose of this standoff.
When her chin lifted, he prepared for more verbal sparring, but she turned on her heels and marched toward the doors. A few minutes later, she showed up in the hall, fully dressed, and polished off every single thing on her plate.
Afterward, those stubborn lips—now covered in honeyed pastry flakes—grinned ferociously at him.
And he only imagined what those soft, sweet lips would taste like for a ragged breath before pushing the fantasy away and returning her smile.
He would take anger over the haunted look he’d witnessed when she first clawed awake anytime. If that’s what it took to make her take care of herself, to soothe the inflamed wound she kept hidden from everyone, he would gladly fill that role.
12
Haven wiped a sweat-damp strand of hair from her forehead as she stared up at the newly reestablished wards shimmering high above the stacked stone wall circling the city of Luthaire.
Stolas tucked his wings against his back. The white hair at his temples had darkened with sweat to a light silver, and he glared against the bright sunlight as he swept his gaze over the perimeter. “The wall we expected, but the ward is . . . new.”
New wasn’t exactly the right word. The capital city of Veserack was once the seat of power over the Broken Three Kingdoms, and