Page 68 of Revealing Fate

She’d wager her good arm that the rest of the cabin was similarly unoccupied. The first few days after she’d gotten as drunk as a tavern-dweller so Kal could patch her up, Felíne did little more than lie in Kal’s enormous bed, shuffle to the washroom, and eat the food that mysteriously appeared any time she needed a meal.

It had been nearly a week since that first night. She hadn’t seen Kal since. In fact, she hadn’t seen anyone. She kept waiting for Meressian soldiers to barge in and arrest her. For Kal to bring the Cozened leaders and take her in chains. But no one came, and she was too nervous to leave.

Felíne remembered Kal stitching her through half-fogged memory. She recalled the feel of his fingers probing her wound, the tug of the thread through her flesh, the nausea that rolled through her—though whether from the whiskey or the sight, she couldn’t say. She had never been squeamish treating patients with Mender Alcuin, yet something about seeing her flesh torn open in jagged, angry lines and watching her blood and lymph ooze out of broken vessels had her choking back bile.

Her stomach tumbled at the recollection. She eyed the eggs and sliced pork on the side table, fragrant steam wafting from the plate, and decided against breakfast.

Felíne pulled back the neckline of her tunic to inspect her wounds. Kal’s future didn’t involve a career as a mender, but he hadn’t done a half-bad job. Her skin was still swollen and tender, but the redness had receded, and the sutures remained intact.

She’d survived a godsdamned grimalkin. The notion threatened to pull a bark of laughter from her. Despite her childhood years of attempting what she’d considered to be dangerous feats, the worst injury Felíne had ever sustained was a fractured wrist after falling out of an orchard tree. If she told her thirteen-year-old self that in eleven years she’d face down a bloodthirsty grimalkin and live to tell about it, she’d have laughed in her face.

Felíne scooted to the edge of the bed. She was reaching for the tin of salve when the bedroom door opened and Kal stepped inside.

Felíne froze.

He was in first form, clothed in a warm brown linen shirt that hung open at the collar, displaying the deep caramel-colored skin of his throat and chest, matching umber trousers, and sturdy leather boots. The tension that radiated off of him hit her like a blow to the chest. Felíne had been alone so long, she’d almost forgotten the magnitude of his presence. It wasn’t anger that saturated the room, but…conflict. His brow was heavy, posture rigid, focus uncomfortably intense.

It took a moment for Felíne to realize he hadn’t readied himself to face some horrible foe—all that defensiveness was in preparation to face her.

Felíne dropped her hand and eased back against the headboard, unsure what to say.

Kal eyed the tin of salve, then narrowed his attention on the untouched food. His expression twisted into one of disappointment.

Irritation heated behind Felíne’s breastbone. “Have you come to gawk, then? Or to silently criticize my eating habits?”

“The lack thereof, you mean?” Kal’s voice was granite.

She looked away, angry at herself for feeling like a petulant child. “I’m not sure why you care.”

“Next time, I’ll leave you to bleed and bind yourself. Is that what you’d prefer me to have done?”

Felíne’s brow lowered, a twin to his. No.

Of course, he would evade her comment.

Kal hadn’t visited her once since the night he’d rescued her from the grimalkin and the trial, learned her true name, and stitched her wounds. He knew who she was and left her alone. Whyever would a man whom the Cozened called Battle Master wish to keep company with the traitorous Prima of Asteros? Petty though it might be, Felíne would be lying if she said it didn’t hurt her feelings.

And yet…instead of bringing soldiers, he brought her food. Beyond that, he cared whether or not she ate it. He left her medicine. Provided her shelter from her enemies. He hadn’t spent time with her, but he also hadn’t left.

Underlying emotion and posturing aside, lies or truth, Kal cared. Not about Railah. About her.

The irritation left her like water from a wrung towel. “Why are you doing this?”

Wariness crept into his dark eyes. “Doing what?”

Felíne tugged her neckline down again, gestured to the salve and food. She didn’t miss the way his attention snagged on her exposed flesh. “Helping me.”

“You offered to patch me up on more than one occasion. I could ask you the same question.”

“That was different,” she said. “I didn’t hate you.”

A muscle feathered in Kal’s jaw. His expression remained carefully neutral. “Why would you think I hate you?”

“Are you going to make me say it?”

Kal didn’t answer. Instead, he asked, “When I entered, were you reaching for the food or the salve?”

“The salve,” Felíne said automatically, caught off guard by the abrupt change in topic.