“The whales sang it?” she asked, a small smile appearing on her mouth again. He mirrored it, though there was a sudden melancholy there that made cracks appear in her hearts.
If she said no, they would have to part ways once he was crowned. It had perhaps always been inevitable that they would, but here he now was, offering a solution as he always did. Hoping she would accept his aid since, this time, that aid was meant for them both. He didn’t want to part ways any more than she did. This was the only choice if they were to walk the same path. How ridiculous it was that a bond as deep as theirs could not secure it for them. That this theater had to be performed or they would become like strangers to one another.
“And what ofmymate?” she asked, emboldened by the thought.
Malcolm’s face went blank, then he frowned and turned back around again, facing forward so he didn’t have to look at her. “They can come along,” Malcolm muttered, splashing some water with his fingers and sinking further into the bath.
She couldn’t keep the smile down at his sullenness. He’d never been very good at sharing.
“I shall think about it,” she said.
“You do that,” he nodded, fishing the sponge out of the bath water. He sat up again, handing it back to her with a glance over his shoulder as he leaned forward and exposed his back to her again in clear encouragement.
She rolled her eyes, but then smiled in a way that got him to smile back. She dragged the sponge over his skin, glistening with wet, soaking up droplets while leaving new ones in her wake and it reminded her of the watermagic. Of the day he would be in possession of it, and how it would lead to a crown placed on his head. That day would precursor him entering into a mating bond that would be eternal.
Even if she did not lose him, he would still be lost to her.
This closeness they shared would be beyond reach.
These quieter moments in private would be seen as obscenities should they engage in them.
Their friendship might hold but the shape of it, of how they related themselves to one another, would be changed at the very foundation.
She didn’t want to feel the weight of it, had been skillfully avoiding it ever since she began to notice how he tended to linger whenever Lady Shannon appeared. How his breath was held. How he smiled, but falteringly, as though unsure it was appropriate or not. It pained her to watch him so uncertain, flushed and excited, though trying so hard to seem unaffected by the mere appearance of the lady. But there had been a weight forming, and now it clutched at her chest as though her acknowledgment of it was all it needed to settle into a roost.
She almost reached out and let her hand follow the trail the sponge was making, wanting suddenly the touch of his skin against hers, as though this would tell her that their bond was as strong as any other, and no other bond he might form would ever sever it.
But she knew, the weight reminded her of it, that this simply was not true.
She was sure to lose him.
Unless she gave up her freedom and, through their friendship, found herself bound to him and to his court. The only other option was packing a bag and leaving the castle for good.
Neither choice felt terribly alluring and so she supposed that, for now, she would have to remain where she was, stuck in between.
Chapter 3 - Malcolm
Iona wasn’t there to wake him in the morning the way she always was, pulling back the drapes in front of his windows and chirping whatever gossip was going around the kitchens. He felt the loss like a blow to his chest, but she had seemed a little off the night prior. He thought about how she had asked if he’d used his watermagic on her to make her feel inferior, to get her to leave, and his chest tightened.
She kept doing things to his chest.
It was a problem.
Present or absent, she was in his thoughts, and now he found himself missing the sound of her voice. Missing the way that she would crack open one of the windows to let the breeze in. He liked how it filled the room with fresh air, not yet heated by the sun, while he dressed. He missed the way she would find some way to lighten his mood. And his mood needed lightening.
Why had he gone about his plan in such a roundabout way, as though he could somehow trick her or fool her into feeling comfortable at court? He was an idiot. He should have simply asked her, told her about his worries, and acknowledged his own fears of losing her. Perhaps that would have made a more compelling argument than utterly destroying her in combat ever could have. What had he even been thinking using his watermagic on her? The impulse still confounded him, but it had felt like the right move in the moment.
Had it been to impress Lady Shannon?
But then he had let Sir Patrick win. Why had he done that?
“I know why you did it,” Iona had stated the night prior, wrapping his robe around him as he’d stepped out of the tub. She’d busied her fingers with tying the slender rope around his waist, securing it with a one-winged butterfly knot. “Because you think that the male ego is so easily bruised that, should you have defeated him, he would never have lived it down.”
She had cocked an eyebrow meaningfully, daring him to argue with her assessment, but he’d merely sighed.
“I suppose,” he’d murmured.
“And what of your ego?” she had asked, reaching up to smooth her hands across his shoulders, down his arms, straightening out the fabric of the garment as though she was dressing him for dinner. It had made him smile, watching her focused expression. She was always careful to make him look presentable while she let herself look like a wild thing brought in from the sea.
