Those machines had knockedPrince Farrendel Laesornyshunconscious and forced Fieran to fight that airship instead of guarding Fort Defense. Because of that, Mongavarian aeroplanes had bombed Fort Defense, killing Myles. If fetching those two machines for study could prevent such a thing from happening again, then her churning stomach and weighted soul would be worth it.
“I’m sorry.” Fieran’s hand traced up her back to cradle the back of her head.
“You already said that.” Her scalp tingled at his touch, the tingles spreading down her spine. That felt rather good. Her tense muscles relaxed further. “And you don’t have to apologize. I was the only choice, and I don’t regret going. I got the job done.”
“I knew you would.” His voice was rough, but the pride in his tone settled deep in her chest.
And she loved him for it. He was both capable himself and yet treated her with respect for her own capabilities.
This was what she’d been searching for when she’d left home to join the army mechanics. Not a place merely to use her skills. Not even just respect for those skills since her family already gave her that.
But this place of belonging. This home that wasn’t the home of her childhood but one she created for herself.
She didn’t know how long this war would last or how much it would demand of her and Fieran before it was over. But she was certain of him. She knew where her heart lay.
Sitting up, she cradled his face, taking in his damp lashes, the redness surrounding his piercing blue eyes, the bleakness in his gaze. “We’re going to be okay, Fieran. No matter what happens, we are going to be okay.”
Then she kissed him. The kiss was too filled with need, too desperate with the memories of that day, but she didn’t care. She simply needed him, as she could tell he needed her.
When he pulled back, he leaned his forehead against hers, their breathing ragged between them. But a hint of a smile curved his lips. “Yes. We’re going to be okay.”
It was so tempting to remain there, held in his arms where they could ignore the war and the weight of their responsibilities.
But they couldn’t.
She clambered to her feet before she held out a hand to Fieran. “Go check on your dacha again. I’ll fetch supper and bring it there.”
Terrifying as it would be to dine in the quarters ofPrince Farrendel Laesornysh, she could handle it. Her fear-awe of Fieran’s dacha didn’t seem so scary after what she’d been through that day.
She’d faced battle. She’d face Fieran’s dacha too. Because she was going to fight for Fieran, whether that meant fighting Mongavarian soldiers or fighting her own fears of his famous family.
She would fight. For Fieran. For the flyboys and flygirls of the Half-Breed Squadron. For the Alliance.
And, together, they might stand a chance.
This timewhen Fieran approached his dacha’s quarters, Uncle Iyrinder and a cordon of Uncle Weylind’s guards were arrayed before the door, holding off the swarm of elves, humans, and even trolls who were asking to see King Weylind.
Fieran pushed past them, nodded to Uncle Iyrinder, and slipped inside. When he entered the bedchamber, Uncle Weylind was already packing up his paperwork.
Rising, Uncle Weylind tucked the paperwork into a leather bag, gripping the wooden lap desk under one arm. “Are you able to stay for a while, nirshon? I am needed elsewhere.”
“Yes, I can stay.” Fieran sank onto the seat by the head of the bed. Dacha lay in nearly the same position as he’d been when Fieran had left several hours ago. Yet his chest rose and fell just as steadily, and his color was better than it had been.
Even as Uncle Weylind left, Fieran reached for Dacha’s swords. The cleaning cloth hung from one of the hilts and the tin of oil rested on the shelf of the table beside the bed.
As a peaceful quiet settled over the room, he set to work polishing the swords, the movements practiced and familiar, even if he’d never cleaned this particular pair of swords before.
But seeing to them was the least he could do after wielding them in battle earlier that day. He ran the polishing cloth downeach side of the blade. Back and forth in steady motions, the glide of the cloth on steel strangely soothing.
As he was finishing the second sword, there was a knock on the outer door before it swung open with a stirring of the air and Pip’s voice calling softly, “We brought food.”
He sheathed the swords, leaned them against the wall, wiped his hands free of the oil as best he could on clean sections of the rag, and stood.
Dacha still slept, not even stirring at the noise. But he was sleeping easily and would probably enjoy being left in peace instead of Uncle Weylind or Fieran hovering.
Grabbing his chair, Fieran pushed open the door between the rooms, hauling the chair after him.
In the main room, Pip had set a tray on the table and was busy setting out the plates and silverware. In the doorway, Merrik stood, talking quietly with his dacha, another tray in his hands.
