“It doesn’t have to mean anything.”
I don’t want to take his comfort. I want to punch him for seeing me in such a state, but I let him gather me against his chest and hold the ice to my head.
It doesn’t fix the pain, but the steady rhythm of his heart does add a sort of focal point for it. I sense his magic gently flowing through me, and while I know it won’t do anything to ease the anguish, it does help my muscles relax between the most intense moments of it.
It feels good to be held—to relax and pretend his comfort is a simple thing I could reach for like a habit.
This is the most dangerous kind of fantasy—the kind that doesn’t become less compelling even when you know it’s manipulation. If I’m not careful, I might stop loathing my husband.
44
HENRY
Harlow is going to be so angry when she wakes up and realizes she’s slept the entire night beside me. I carried her from the bathroom floor to her bed in the middle of the night, when the worst of her shaking had stopped and the pain was stable.
Now she’s splayed out beside me, her hand resting in mine.
She’s still hurting. I can feel it like a pulse beneath her skin. Last night it was much worse, but this is still the kind of anguish that would be impossible to ignore. I’ve never felt anything quite like it, but I’ve never treated anyone with attacks like these at the fort.
She spent hours last night writhing in agony. Now she’s still, but her muscles are tight, still braced for pain that hasn’t abated. How long do these attacks typically last, and how does she endure their seemingly random and sudden arrival?
She stirs, cracks one eye open, and groans. She pulls her hand out of my grip.
“Good morning, lovely. You look radiant.” It’s irritating that this is the worst I’ve ever seen her look, and she’s still so beautiful.
“Don’t you have something better to do?” Her voice is raspy from sleep. The sound of it, combined with the sight of her mussed hair, makes me want to messy her more.
Instead, I hand her a glass of water, help her sit up, and watch her throat bob as she swallows it down.
“Something better than tending to my grumpy, ailing wife? No. I don’t have anything better to do than be the recipient of your biting wit. How are you feeling?”
“Like my brain has been trying to outgrow my skull all night. Tense. Exhausted.” She lies back and presses the heels of her hands to her temples.
Clearly, the soft side of her has been chased away by the morning light, and I expect her to be especially ornery to make up for last night.
“Is there anything that helps other than ice?”
“I’m not a problem to be solved, Henry,” she snaps. “Everyone always wants to do something about it. The last thing I need is to endure a bunch of poking and prodding soyoucan feel helpful.”
“I’m not trying to solve you, but I’m happy to do some poking and prodding if you think it will improve your mood,” I say with a smirk.
She groans and rolls over.
I swipe the slip of paper from the nightstand and hold it up. “I have something for you. Someone slipped it under the door earlier.”
She rolls over, takes the note from my hand, and sits up, immediately pressing a palm to her forehead until the blood rush abates. She reads the note and freezes.
“What is it?”
I look over her shoulder at the note in her hands.
I left white roses for her.
“What does it mean?” I ask.
Harlow waves a dismissive hand. “He means he left them for Aidia. They’re her favorite. If I dropped them off, Rafe would throw them away, but Gaven knows the servants at North Hold and he can slip in and out without Rafe noticing. He usually takes roses over once a week.”
I frown. “Then what’s the issue?”
