She swallowed, rage scalding the back of her throat. “My uncle is a real horse’s ass. Spilling blood is ridiculous and could happen from a paper cut. He knows that, and I’m sure he added this on purpose. I’m sorry.”
The room’s sweltering air burned hotter. It practically shimmered with Safi’s apology, and for several long heartbeats, Merik regarded her.
Then a smile brushed over his lips. “I don’t think you’re apologizing for your uncle right now. At least not entirely.”
Safi bit her lip and held his gaze. She wanted him to see what she felt. She needed him to read the regret in her eyes.
His smile crooked higher and with a nod that could almost be interpreted as an acceptance of her apology, he turned back to the contract. “Your uncle simply wants you unharmed. He was quite emphatic on that point, and it’s only natural that he’d be particular about his niece’s health.”
“My uncle,” she said, twirling a careless hand, “would deem me in perfect health even if I’d been stabbed four times and pegged with a hundred arrows. You could probably maim me, Prince, and my uncle wouldn’t bat an eye.”
Merik snorted. “Let’s not try it, all right?” With a sigh, he slanted inward until his left arm rested almost against Safi’s. Until the smell of him expanded in her nose. Saltwater, sweat, and sandalwood.
It wasn’t terribly unpleasant. Not to mention she found she couldn’t look away from his exposed wrists—easily twice the size of hers—or the fine hairs on his forearms.
“What about,” Merik asked softly, carefully, “your betrothed? How would Emperor Henrick feel if you were pegged with a hundred arrows?”
In less than a blink, Safi’s blood hit a boil in her ears. Why was Merik asking her about Henrick? And why did she feel like the fate of the world rested on the answer?
When at last she attempted to speak, her voice was taut as a bowstring. “Henrick isn’t my betrothed. I can’t accept that. I won’t. One moment, I was dancing with you at the ball, and the next…” She gave a harsh laugh. “The next moment, Emperor Henrick was declaring me his future bride.”
Merik’s breath expelled roughly. “You mean you didn’t know before then?”
She shook her head, avoiding Merik’s eyes—though she felt them sear into her. “I didn’t know my uncle would stage this wild escape either. He had mentioned big plans, but never in a million years could I have guessed that I’d be stolen from Ve?aza City, hunted by a Bloodwitch, and forced onto your ship. It has been a huge, endless cascade of surprises. At least, though, it keeps me out of Henrick’s clutches.” She gave another tense laugh and tried to lean forward, to pretend to examine the map. But seconds slid past without her absorbing a single river or road. It was as if the power in the room was shifting—tumbling out of her hands and into Merik’s.
Then Merik reached across the map to tap at a snaking line of blue. His arm brushed hers.
It was a seemingly accidental touch, yet Safi knew—knew—from the way Merik moved, confident and determined, that it wasn’t accidental at all.
“We’ll set up camp here,” he said. “Yoris said this stream is clean.”
Safi nodded—or tried to. Her heart was stuck somewhere in her throat, and it made her movements jerky. Frantic, even, and she couldn’t seem to meet his stare. In fact, she stared at every part of his face but his eyes.
He had stubble on his chin, on his jaw, and around the curve of his lips. The triangle between his brows was creased in, but not with a frown. With concentration. It was the hollow of Merik’s throat, though, that grabbed her attention—the pulse that she thought she saw fluttering there.
Finally, she risked flicking her gaze upward—and found Merik’s eyes roving across her face. To her lips. To her neck.
The door flew wide. Safi and Merik jerked apart.
Evrane strode in … then instantly reared back. “Am I … am I interrupting something?”
“No,” Safi and Merik intoned, stepping apart two paces. Then a third, for good measure.
Iseult tottered into the room behind Evrane, her face pale and the Carawen hood pulled back. She looked like she might vomit or pass out—or both.
Safi lurched for Iseult and grabbed her arm, guiding her to a stool. Then Safi unfastened the Carawen cloak from Iseult’s neck and shoved it toward Evrane. “You’re sweating too much. Are you sick?”
“I just need rest,” Iseult answered. Then, she nodded gratefully as Merik handed her a glass of water. “Thank you.”
“She needs more than rest,” Evrane insisted. “She needs healing.”
Cold terror caught Safi’s breath. “Firewitch healing?”
“Not Firewitch healing,” Evrane rushed to assure her, “but more than I can offer right now. I am drained from days of tapping into my power…” She trailed off, her gaze moving to Merik. “If we could go to the Well, then I could help her.”
Merik stiffened, the triangle on his brow deepening. “The Well hasn’t healed anyone for centuries.”