: Chapter 31

Maybe my father really did knock me out and none of this is happening. Because I can’t imagine any version of reality where Lord Tycho, the King’s Courier, would have his hands buried in my hair and his breath on my tongue.

Or maybe I’m dead. But if this is death, I’m not complaining.

I’m afraid to open my eyes, like I’ll wake up and discover I’m dreaming. My other senses are overwhelmed, from the sweet taste of the wine on his lips to the heady scent of his skin, something earthy and raw like the forest in early morning. He touched my hair so delicately, and his hands are so gentle, but there’s no restraint in the way he kisses me. My fingers find his chest, clenching in the fabric of his shirt, and my heart kicks against my ribs to find him so close. When one of his hands leaves my face to stroke up the length of my side, I gasp and suck in a breath.

He pulls back just enough to whisper against my lips. “Stop?”

It’s enough to force my eyes open, though I wouldn’t even stop if I were drowning. But then I realize how he’s so close: Tycho has gone to his knees in front of my chair. His hair is gold in the firelight, his eyes shadowed.

I have to swallow. He truly is the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. I’m afraid to touch him now, as if he’ll vanish. But he’s so close that I can’t not touch him. I put my palm against his face, finding his jaw a little rough. When my thumb strokes across his mouth, his lips part, and I feel the edge of his teeth, the bare brush of his tongue. His hands settle on my knees, fingers pressing into the muscle there, and he leans in to kiss me again. Gentler this time. Agonizingly slow.

This is like the moment when he healed me, but a thousand times better, my entire body filling with honey and heat. My hands find his hands, sliding up his forearms until I reach the curved muscle of his biceps. There’s a part of me that wants to tackle him to the floor, to feel the strength and power that I know hides behind his gentle touch. But when my hands slide up the column of his neck, his kisses stop, his mouth hesitating against mine.

I don’t know if this is about what he just revealed about his childhood, or if it’s related to the scars on his back, but I wait, letting him breathe against me. There’s an element of trust to this, and I don’t want to violate that. He’s the one with the status and the magic and the weapons, but in this moment, none of that matters. He’s offered me a vulnerable bit of himself. Possibly the most vulnerable bit of himself.

Maybe that’s what gives me the courage to shift a little closer so I can whisper along his jaw. “Stop?”

He shakes his head, but it’s a tiny movement, an uncertain movement, so I wait, our faces almost pressed together, my fingers still against his neck. His breathing seems too quick, and his pulse is a strong beat under my fingertips. I can sense his tension now, but he winds a finger through a strand of my hair again, almost as tentative as when he did it the first time.

He kisses me lightly, then withdraws to sit back on his heels. His cheeks are a bit flushed, his hair a bit wild. “As I said, far too little practice with courtship.”

It’s so unexpected and he’s so serious that I almost burst out laughing. I have to rub my hands over my face. My brain seems incapable of forming a coherent thought, and I’m worried if I try to speak the only thing that will come out of my mouth is going to sound like guh.

“Jax,” he says softly, earnestly, as if he’s worried.

“Tycho.” I pull my hands down and stare at him in wonder. “You saved my life and served me dinner and kissed me senseless—and now you’re kneeling on the ground at my feet. Somehow you believe you have too little practice with courtship?”

He smiles, and something about it is bashful, but something about it is a little wicked, too. “Next time, I’ll attempt a bit more proficiency.”

“I’m not sure I’ll survive it.” But then I realize what he’s said, and the smile falls off my face.

Next time.

Because he’s leaving. Likely tonight, I’m sure. He and Lord Jacob have no reason to linger in Briarlock. He’d be gone now if not for my father.

Tycho notices immediately, because he rises up, taking my hands, pressing them between his. “It will not be weeks or months or never, Jax. I swear to you. I have to return to the Crystal Palace with Jacob, but now that plans have been set for the first competition of the Royal Challenge, I will be sent back to Emberfall. Soon.”

I swear to you. I don’t think anyone has ever sworn anything to me. My chest is tight all the same. I know his role, how his schedule is at the mercy of the king.

He lifts a hand to brush a thumb across my cheek. “A week,” he whispers. “At most.”

I nod.

I knew this part would hurt. And he’s not even leaving yet.

His hand winds in my hair, tugging gently at the strands. My insides are turning to warm honey again, but I don’t want to make this hurt more, so I force myself to speak into the silence.

“Are you going to compete?” I say. “Is that why you’re going to Emberfall?”

“Not this one,” he says. “The king and queen will travel to watch the first competition. I will ride ahead to ensure Prince Rhen is prepared for whatever they may need. There are always threats against the Crown.” He pauses. “But I will not make you wait so long, Jax.”

There are always threats against the Crown. Again, I’ve forgotten who I am and what I’ve been a small part of. I’ve wanted to confess to him before, but right now, I almost can’t keep the words in my mouth. I want to tell him everything about Lord Alek and Lady Karyl. He’s given me so much, told me so much. I feel as though I’m keeping a tremendous secret in the face of all his openness.

But I don’t have any proof—and I don’t want to admit how desperately we need silver to save the forge. I told him earlier that I don’t want pity, and I meant it. Tycho’s confession to me was about something real, something potent, a terrible moment in his life that he’s grown past and found the strength to face.

Conning the Truthbringers out of silver seems to pale in comparison. Shame curls in my belly, and I bite my tongue.

I look into Tycho’s brown eyes, so much darker than eyes native to Syhl Shallow. I will not make you wait so long.

“Yes, my lord,” I whisper.

His eyes fall closed. “Jax.”

A knock raps at the door. “T. It’s me.”

Tycho sighs. “Silver hell.” He sits back on his heels again, then agilely rises to his feet. “Come in, Jake.” Any hint of vulnerability is gone from his frame. Gone is the boy who carefully stroked his fingers through my hair, leaving only the former soldier.

I straighten in the chair as Lord Jacob enters. His eyes fall on me. “The magistrate jailed your father for a fortnight. I couldn’t get more than that. But maybe that will sober him up and he’ll realize what he did.”

A fortnight. He’s never been locked up that long, but I know it won’t change much. I mentally calculate how much food we might have in the pantry. Callyn’s bakery has been so busy, but maybe she can spare some meals. I think of my bow and wonder if I could hit a moving target to hunt.

He’s waiting for an answer, so I force myself to nod. “Thank you, Lord Jacob.”

He looks to Tycho. “Take my horse. Get him home. I’ll settle up here. We should ride out before we lose the light entirely.”

Tycho nods and reaches for his armor.

And just like that, it’s over. Before I’m ready, Tycho is helping me onto Mercy, while he swings onto Jake’s large black gelding. Dusk has begun to fall, throwing long shadows in our path. I grip tight to the pommel of the saddle, but Tycho leads at a walk.

He’s quiet, so I am too.

Already, the memory is bringing me pain.

When we get back to the forge, the fire has gone cold. The workshop is a bit of a mess. I can see my bow has been snapped, shards of wood sticking out from under the table. I wonder if my father did that, or if I did it myself when I was so angry with Tycho. At the time, I didn’t care, but now I do.

I shouldn’t. I have bigger worries than archery. My heartbeat is a roar in my ears. Everything that happened in the boarding house feels like a cruel dream.

I find my crutches on the floor, and they slide under my arms. I can’t look at him. “Be well, Lord Tycho.”

He catches my arm, the first hint of true strength from him. When I turn with vitriol on my tongue, he steps close, his hand catching my face. He leans in, almost an embrace, but his voice speaks right to my ear.

“I swore to you,” he says softly. “Yes?”

I nod. “Yes.”

“I keep my word.” He pauses, drawing back to look at me. “In truth,” he says, “you’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. And I’m not confined to the forge.”

My heart skips. I can’t speak.

I want to tell him everything. But now it’s too late. He’s leaving. Again. He ties up the black gelding’s reins, then springs onto Mercy.

“One week,” he says. “Maybe less.”

I swallow and nod.

He takes a long breath, then closes his eyes. “Silver hell,” he says under his breath. “I’m in trouble already.”

“Then go,” I say.

“Not yet.” He climbs back down from the horse, strides up to me, and before I’m ready, he presses his mouth to mine.

I’m breathless and dizzy and I’m about to make nonsensical sounds again.

Tycho hits me in the chest with something, and I grab hold automatically. “Work on your long range,” he’s saying. “Remember what I said about your hands.”

My thoughts are still tangled up in the feel of his mouth. “What?”

He swings aboard his horse and laughs lightly. “Be well, Jax.”

And then he’s gone.

It takes me a solid minute before I can look down at whatever he shoved into my chest.

His bow.