They stared at each other for a moment before Ivy buckled under his relentless onslaught of optimism. “When did you get so nice?”
“I had a very good teacher,” he said, patting her hand with his injured one. She wondered if it hurt.
A movement from the bed drew Ivy’s attention: the shifting of bedsheets. Helios’s lips cracked open to release a soft groan, his hand—also bandaged—rising to inspect the gauze wrapped around his head.
Dorian stood, pushing his chair back and inserting himself as much between Ivy and the bed as he could. She tried to push him aside, but she might as well have tried rolling a boulder away. He stayed right where he was, one hand resting, not at all subtly, on the pommel of his sword. It was a threat, delivered with stone cold certainty. Try anything and say goodbye to your innards.
No, Ivy thought. Not an easy target at all.
It took a few seconds for Helios to blearily open his eyes. He blinked up at Dorian, a wrinkle forming between his brows. Ivy saw it dawn on him that he was alive and then, in quick succession, that he was in a great deal of trouble.
“Captain.” Helios’s voice tripped over the syllables, rusty from disuse and dehydration.
“Dorian,” Ivy said. “Move.” She shoved at his hip, and this time, he did move. Slowly and grudgingly, but he stepped aside to let her see the man lying helpless in bed.
At the sound of her voice, Helios’s eyes, clouded and disoriented but still as brilliantly yellow as ever, cut to her. He swallowed thickly before speaking. “Ivy.” Her name was a whisper on his lips.
Something critical to her structural integrity buckled at the way he said it. Dorian misread her reaction and moved to stand between them again. “No. You don’t get to talk to her.”
Dorian’s kindness was evidently not an infinite commodity.
“What was that you were saying about forgiveness?” It was easier for Ivy to talk to Dorian than it was to look at Helios.
“I said you might forgive him.” His fingers drummed against the hilt of his sword, perhaps for no greater reason than to remind Helios that it was there and that Dorian had no qualms about using it. “I never said I would.”
Before Ivy could conjure a suitable reply, a hacking cough erupted from Helios’s throat. She responded without thinking, the sound of a person in distress flipping the switch inside her that activated her healer mode.
“Out of the way,” she said to Dorian. Her tone held the authority of an order, making it abundantly clear that it was not a request. He got out of the way without protest.
Ivy took up the glass of water one of the other healers had left on the bedside table, intending it for Ivy when it became clear she had no intention of letting one of the others sit vigil as they waited for their prisoner to wake. She held the glass to Helios’s lips, careful to tilt it just enough for him to take a shallow sip. He was propped up by enough pillows not to choke on it.
She was aware of Dorian watching warily from the sidelines, his gaze as sharp as an eagle’s. If Helios made any sudden movements, he was likely to find himself short of a limb or two. Not that such a thing was likely to happen, since Ivy was fairly certain his skeleton was boasting more than its fair share of fractures.
Helios rested back against the pillows when he finished drinking. Wordlessly, Ivy set the glass back on the bedside table.
“Thank you,” Helios said softly.
For lack of anything better to say, Ivy replied, “You’re welcome.”
A great, oppressive silence fell.
Helios’s eyes flitted from Ivy to Dorian. “I don’t have the right to ask…” He worried his chapped bottom lip between his teeth, his gaze settling behind Ivy. He couldn’t look her in the eye, but his words were clearly meant for her. “But can I speak to you? Alone?”
Dorian’s answer was quick and absolute. “No.”
Ivy sighed. “Dorian…”
“I’m not leaving you alone with him. He’s a traitor.”
“And what could he possibly do to me?” Ivy gestured at the bandages swathing great expanses of Helios’s body. “Stare at me vengefully? I may not be much of a warrior, but I’m pretty sure I can handle an invalid.”
For a moment, Helios’s expression turned mutinous, as if he wanted very much to argue her assessment of his physical capabilities. But when he tried to sit up, pain sent him flopping right back onto the pillows. “She’s right,” he said. “I’m not a threat in this state. The only person I’m capable of hurting is myself.”
Words, Ivy thought, were sometimes better weapons than fists. But she kept her musing to herself. While a part of her had no interest in Helios’s groveled apologies or flimsy excuses, she was too curious to ignore an opportunity to hear what he had to say for himself.
“I’ll be fine, Dorian.” That was probably a lie. “Just give us a minute.”
Dorian hovered beside her, a silent sentinel, for so long that Ivy thought he was not going to move. But then he heaved a weary sigh and relented. “Fine.” To Helios, he added, “But I’ll be right outside that door. If Ivy calls, I will hear her and I will come back in. You don’t want me to come back in, Helios.”
A shallow, terse nod. “No, sir.”
“If you say anything to upset her, I will gladly cut out your tongue.”
That was a lovely visual. “Caius wants to interrogate him later,” Ivy said, out of a sense of obligation.
Dorian shrugged. “He doesn’t need a tongue for that. We can supply him with paper to write his answers down.”
Helios, to his credit, seemed remarkably unperturbed by their glib discussion of his possible mutilation. “The last thing I want to do—the last thing I ever wanted to do—was hurt Ivy.” His yellow eyes flicked to Ivy. “I’m sure you think the worst of me, but please…know that.”
Dorian advanced on him. “You have the audacity—”
“Dorian.” Ivy held up a hand.
He didn’t wrest his glare from Helios when he spoke. “Right outside that door,” he promised.
Helios nodded a fraction. “Understood.”
Ivy watched Dorian leave. The door clicked shut behind him, and she kept her eyes on it because she wasn’t sure what she would see or think or feel when it was just Helios in the room with her. It had been far simpler when he’d been unconscious.
“Ivy.”
She turned back to face him, slowly. “What?”
Dorian thought she was kind, but she was more than that. Kindness wasn’t a passive quality. It was a choice one had to make, and right then, Ivy didn’t feel much like making it. The wound of Helios’s betrayal was too raw for kindness. Maybe Dorian was right. Maybe one day, she would dig deep within her soul and find the capacity for forgiveness he was so certain she had. But today was not likely to be that day.
Helios closed his eyes, lashes dark against his sallow skin. She’d once found him obscenely handsome. She still did, if she was honest with herself.
“I’m sorry,” he said, tensed as if expecting a blow.
“You’re sorry,” Ivy repeated, her voice hollow. “That’s it? You’re sorry.”