As we marched up the stairs to his room, my mind whirled. By now, after nearly three months in the castle, I knew the routine: bath, dinner, bed. Irrik was a stickler for routine . . . and cleanliness. Just like Mum, except now I knew why they were sticklers for cleanliness.
Jotun and his Druman continued lurking outside my “official” room, and Irrik wouldn’t leave me to their mercy there—thank the moons—so this was my “unofficial” room. A fact I’m sure the king was well aware of, seeing as the guards had delivered missives here on several occasions.
I followed Lord Irrik inside, dreaming of the steaming bath water I’d be soaking in soon. Two nice things about the Drae’s rooms: I got to bathe and the food was yum. I slept on the couch. Or at least I started each night on the couch. Something in my body or brain would click off after falling asleep, and a thread of insanity made me climb into his bed. I liked to think my affinity for his bed was the softness of his blankets. After the same thing happened several nights in a row, he told me it would be easier if I just started there and he slept on the couch. That way he didn’t have to move to avoid my bumbling sleepwalks. So I guess there were three good things. I’d bumped the king’s Drae out of his own bed. I was a force to be reckoned with.
“Go bathe,” he grumbled as we stepped in the door. He crossed to the tray and lifted the top to inspect our supper.
I shifted from foot to foot. Normally, he went to the washroom first to heat the bath the servants had already filled. His change in routine wasn’t appreciated. Had he forgotten? Why couldn’t he forget the routine of waking me at the butt crack of dawn, instead? “Will you please warm the water?”
Irrik remained where he was, back to me. He dropped his head into his hands, shoulders slumped with unseen weight. Several seconds passed as I watched him. He sucked in a deep breath, and with hands on either side of his head, he massaged his temples.
My head had been filled with thoughts of the all-consuming kiss I just shared with Tyr, but in that moment I felt something for the Drae: pity, or possibly compassion. He’d been cruel, but he’d also been kind, even if his reasons were self-serving. I took a deep breath and asked, “Can Phaetyn heal Drae?”
He stilled but remained silent.
Was I suggesting something preposterous? Was it somehow insensitive? The rules that the Drae played by were largely a mystery to me, so I had no idea if what I’d suggested was horribly offensive.
“Look, I’m not being a jerk.” Not this time. “I want to know if I can help you. You’ve done some nice things and . . .” I wrung my hands then clasped them to prevent any more dirt falling to the floor. Maybe I was a mud lady. “Anyway, if I can do something to help, I feel like I owe you. And don’t worry about the bath. I should be grateful . . . I am grateful that I get to take one.”
Could I sound any stupider? I shook my head and hurried to the washroom. Stripping out of my clothes, I caught the gaze of the girl in the mirror and wondered how Arnik recognized me. I didn’t even recognize myself. I pulled the tie out, and my silver hair tumbled past my shoulders. Wide violet eyes, framed with thick dark lashes blinked back at me. My skin was still pale, but more like the first blush of tan on toasted meringue. As if the thought of food had called it, my stomach growled.
I looked at the stacks of soaps lining the counter and selected one of my favorites, lavender and mint, and slid into the tub. The water was cooler than I was used to but not unpleasant. I made quick use of my time and had just wrapped a towel around me when Irrik tapped on the door.
“You need to eat,” he said.
The reflection in the mirror said I had been eating—enough so my body didn’t have that cachectic famine look anymore.
“I’ll be right out,” I hollered and pulled on my shift and hose. I ran my fingers through my damp hair and opened the door, but I pulled up short.
Irrik blocked my path.
I peered up at him. The confusion marring his features had my stomach twisting in knots.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
He schooled his expression and pointed at the table. “Your supper is ready.”
Lord Irrik was officially weirding me out, which was saying a lot because I was pretty sure “weirding” wasn’t a word. I was inventing words because my vocabulary had no words for him. “I thought supper was ready when we came in.” I raised my brows and continued down the pathway of insanity I was quickly growing accustomed to. “Just like every night.” I closed my eyes and bit my tongue to stop my sarcastic comments. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what it is about you that makes me say those things.”
He chuckled, and the sound stroked my frayed nerves. “At least I always know where I stand with you.”
Really? Because he confused the everliving life out of me.
He stepped back from the doorway, and I inched past him, every nerve attuned to his proximity. When he stepped into the washroom and closed the door, I sighed with relief and crossed the large empty expanse to the couch and table. I stared at the high ceiling, trying to collect my thoughts. When that proved useless, I turned my attention to supper.
My silver platter was laden with food.
A large roast of meat, sliced thick and still pink in the center, sat in the middle, surrounded by roasted potatoes the size of my thumb. Yeah, I’m pretty sure those weren’t grown by me and my Phaetyn powers. They were way too small.
A small dish of brussel sprouts fried with bacon and a small basket of yeast rolls competed for my attention.
My mouth watered as I looked for my plate. Only there wasn’t one. There was one set of silverware and one mug for the flagon of nectar. Which meant he’d intended to leave me in the dungeon all night.
“Why aren’t you eating?” he growled, coming out of the washroom not long after, his liquid black hair still glistening with water. He held a towel in his hands and was drying his muscular chest and torso.
Heat crept up my neck, and I averted my gaze. Did I want to? Maybe not. I’m sure Tyr would have something to say if I didn’t, however.
—Lord Irrik—Friend or Foe? — —The Drae—Damned or Demented? — —The King’s First—by Intention or by Accident? — “Why do you keep saving me?” I asked, glancing back.
He crossed the room to the wardrobe, picked a black aketon from a row of black aketons, and pulled it over his head. It must be so hard for him to decide what to wear each morning.
After fastening the ties, he faced me. His dark gaze pinned me to the soft cushions. Several seconds of silence hung in the air around us, but I was determined to not add anything else to my question. I wanted his answer. I wanted to know something about the Drae.