The walk were a hundred times longer than it had been the day before. I stayed outside for as long as I could, but as soon as I stepped into the warmth I felt like I melted with it. I fell against the wall, breathing hard.
Sucking in a deep breath, I pushed off the wall and walked quick through, desperate to get to him. When I came to his hallway, I knew his room by the guards outside it.
But they weren’t there to keep me out, only keep him in, and they didn’t even look at me as I opened the door and entered.
I shut the door and slumped against it. It were a small room, and Winchester’s wide, tall body were brimming it over. Rob sat on the bed. His shirt were stripped off in a sweaty heap on the floor with leathers and a tunic besides. His body were glowing red, his mouth drooling with blood, and he held a balled-up cloth to his face.
His eyes met mine, and the ball in his throat ran up and down. “Scarlet,” he said, soft and rough.
Winchester turned, ducking his head to me. “My lady,” he said. He glanced back to Rob. “I shall leave him in your care—my own healer should be along shortly.”
Winchester came closer, blocking my body from Rob’s view. “Perhaps,” he whispered, “you should allow him to look at you as well.” His jaw worked. “I regret that I feel I was protecting the wrong party last night.”
Without much knowing why, I were dangerous close to crying. I shook my head.
He nodded and opened the door. I could hear him telling the guards—his guards, I realized—to allow no one but his healer in.
“Rob,” I whispered. “Are you … are you all right?”
He walked over to me slow, his eyes never leaving mine, and he stood just before me, holding his breath before he touched me. His fingertips touched the side of my mouth and slid back along my cheek, first one, then three, then four grazing along my skin. His thumb skidded over my lips, dragging my breath away with it.
My one hand slid up, doing the work for two as it ran slow over his chest, ridges and dips and smooth planes like the forest itself, beckoning me and tricking me and drawing me in deeper. The bit of hair furring over his chest licked at my fingers as I ran over it, phantom touches along my skin. I hit smooth skin again and pushed my fingers wide to curl over his shoulder and round his neck, drawing him closer to me.
“Scarlet,” he whispered, staring at me, his eyes checking my face. “What happened last night? You look … you scared the hell out of me when I saw you. You’re wearing the same dress.”
“You first,” I said, shutting my eyes. I pulled him closer still, waiting until our faces touched, his forehead resting on mine.
“Scarlet,” he said. “You know what happened to me. They’re letting me compete. And by some miracle, they haven’t been cruel to me. Which makes me think that cruelty has gone elsewhere.”
“I don’t know, Rob. I see you out there, fighting like that, and I don’t know anything about you at all.”
“Scarlet.” His eyes were steady, not thrown off. “You’re shaking.”
I were?
He leaned away a bit. “I frightened you,” he said, and his voice were more low and dark than a well.
“No.” My hand on him turned to a grip as the floor tilted.
He frowned and moved quick, taking me about the waist and pulling me down upon the bed, sitting beside me. His hands on me changed, running through my hair to check for lumps on my head, pressing my skin to check what were broken. Soon enough he went still, and after a breath gentle fingers went about the wrist in the sling. Even that touch sent pain like shards of glass through me, and I shook my head, moaning.
“What did they do.”
It weren’t a question. It were dark and angry.
“Rob.”
“No more, Scarlet. Tell me. Now.”
“They punished me,” I said soft. “The prince. He …” I had felt the point of the knife before it touched my skin. Watching it, waiting for it, knowing the pain were about to come, it were like I made it happen before it really started. How did I tell him that? “Nothing,” I ground out, meeting his eyes. “He did nothing that I can’t take, nothing that makes me wish I’d done different. And nothing for you to hurt over.”
But Rob kept on, taking my hand and seeing the way it were bandaged, two small fingers and a flat stretch before my thumb with blood starting to seep through.
His chest started rising and dropping fast, like he couldn’t breathe swift enough and none of it were doing no good. His hands went to fists, pressed hard on his knees, and then he struck his knees, hard and fast. He bent forward, then sprang up and drove his fist into the wooden post with a cry.
I tried to stand, but my legs couldn’t hold it. “Rob,” I sighed. “Rob, come to me.”
He growled low, kicking the post once, twice, three times in sharp succession.