Unable to fight the tea, I lean into him and let sleep come. As I slip away, I feel the softest brush of his lips against my hair.
I stretch when I wake,realizing there’s a kink in my neck, and my leg aches. When I open my eyes, I find Danver stretched across my lap.
I’m still perched against Galinor’s shoulder, and I glance up at him.
He stayed with me, just as he said he would.
Pika is no longer on the bed. Whether she was kicked out or left on her own, I don’t know, but Marigold and Rosie are there now, asleep.
Sunlight streams through the cracks in the shutters, and birds chirp outside.
I sit up, hoping I won’t disturb Galinor, and pull back the wrap to examine my leg. The wound looks funny, but it’s closed.
“I cauterized it when you passed out,” Galinor says, his voice thick with sleep. “Be grateful you weren’t conscious for that.”
I am.
“Will it scar?” I ask, more curious than concerned.
“Most likely. I’m sorry—I didn’t have a way to stitch it.”
Scars are preferable to bleeding to death. Wonderinghow bad it is, I stand up, testing my leg. As soon as I put weight on it, I gasp and fall back onto the bench.
“You’ll want to stay off it for a while,” Galinor says.
“Can I ride?”
He thinks about it. “Most likely, though only for short stretches. Most of the time you’ll have to ride in the cart.”
I glance at the sleeping women and whisper, “Rosie won’t like me stealing her place.”
Galinor leans close and drops his voice. “Right now, I think Irving and Rosie would both like some distance from each other.”
Apparently, Rosie hasn’t forgiven Irving yet.
I turn my head to study Galinor. His hair is rumpled from sleep, and stubble shadows his jaw. My mouth goes dry as I acknowledge he looks good.
Very good.
I must stare a bit too long because his eyes meet mine in question. For a moment, I forget that we’re not alone. He’s too handsome, he’s too close.
I bite my lip, trying to control my racing heart.
“Stop that,” Galinor says, his voice low.
He runs his hand up my arm. When his fingers graze my neck, I know it’s not the sweet, non-romantic move it’s been so many times before.
I lean toward his touch. “Stop what?”
Galinor groans softly. “You’re always biting your lip—when you think, when you’re nervous.”
I lean in. “I’m not nervous.”
His breath teases my lips. “Then maybe you’re thinking?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe we should stop thinking?”
