Page 74 of Fallen Crown

Brice covers my hands with his, and the contact stills everything inside of me for a beat, centers me. I meet his gaze. One of his hands strays to my hair, and he brushes aside some pieces that have come loose from my ponytail. He leans forward and presses his lips to my forehead, breathing me in. Then he returns to the waistband on my pants, and he gently eases them down my legs.

The gash on my leg is jagged and ugly. Must have been a rock, but seeing the evidence of where I hurt myself calms me another notch. This isn’t the same. A cut. I’ll be okay. I take a deep, shuddering breath, and Brice squeezes my hips with one hand while he digs through the first aid kit with the other.

He cleans the wound with enough alcohol to make me put a death grip on the couch. Then he applies a long, thick bandage and secures it in place with medical tape. Not ideal, and it’ll likely come off in the water when the race resumes.

“I have waterproof bandages in my first aid kit,” I say, my throat raw.

“When they restart the race, I’ll change it out. No point in wasting those if this bleeds through.” He glances up at me, and then he runs his thumb along my cheekbone. An increasingly familiar gesture.

“I probably look a mess,” I say.

“A gorgeous mess,” he says. “I’m going to get the cabin organized. Take advantage of these clotheslines to dry things and crank the space heaters. Practically the lap of luxury.”

The cabin is more like a shack with two space heaters, a single oversize couch, a walkie-talkie set, and a fridge. But Brice is right. Hanging our stuff to dry with the heating cranked is a good idea. Although the dampness will feel even colder when we eventually have to go back out there.

“How long do you think they’ll delay the race?” Brice asks as he putters around hanging things up.

“Likely until morning,” I say, and my teeth begin to chatter.

“I once missed class because of hypothermia,” Brice says as he digs around in my pack.

“Really?”

“I was too cool for school,” he says as he drags out my tightly bundled sleeping bag from the dry bag I keep it in. He urges me to lift my arms as he removes my soaked shirt. My bra and underwear don’t leave much to the imagination, and if I wasn’t so cold, I might be more self-conscious. He unzips the sleeping bag and lays it around me, tucking it in tight as though seeing me almost naked is no big deal.

“Do you have a joke for everything?” The sleeping bag isn’t warm yet, but the space heaters are starting to kick off some heat.

“Spent a lot of years having to entertain everyone from diplomats to bored society women.” He winks at me before unearthing more things to hang up. “Court jester, at your service.”

“You don’t have to entertain me.”

“I don’t like seeing you sad.”

“You’re not the only one.” I draw the material up to my chin, but my teeth are still chattering. All the times Enzo tried to cajole or force or threaten me into a better mood spring to mind. Even before my accident, he didn’t just hate to see me sad. He resented it. “People are allowed to be sad.”

“Yeah, I—” Brice huffs out a breath. “I vowed that I wouldn’t be the cause of it anymore.” He runs a hand through his damp hair. “You can be sad. Of course you can be sad, but I’d never want to be the reason for it—not anymore.”

“A vow?” I try to catch his gaze, but he’s hanging things on the various clotheslines and drying racks. “Why would you make a vow?”

The walkie-talkie set on top of the fridge makes a static noise. “Prince Brice or Maren Tucker. Please confirm you’re in the cabin.”

Brice crosses the room and speaks into the walkie-talkie, confirming they’ll radio when the race restarts and the plan to stay put until the water levels recede. He doesn’t mention my injury, and if I wasn’t so cold, I’d breathe a sigh of relief.

“We should probably take advantage of being able to sleep somewhat comfortably.” He flicks out our rolled foam mattresses onto the floor, and he arranges his sleeping bag.

My teeth haven’t stopped chattering, and I’m afraid to shift the blanket at all in case the chill creeps in.

He takes off his shirt, and his muscles ripple. After he undoes the top button of his shorts, they fall to the ground with a soft thud, and he places both items near the heaters.

“W-wh-y d-do you have so many tattoos?” I ask. They litter his skin, but I wouldn’t say they cover it. A few are overlapped, but most of them have their own space carved out on his body.

“That’s like asking why I’ve drank so much tequila.” He stands at the edge of the couch with his hands on his hips.

“W-w-why have you drank so much tequila?” If that’s the question he’d prefer to answer, I can ask it. Anything to keep my mind off his hot (mostly) naked body and my freezing one.

“You’re still cold. Body heat, Tucker, or I’ll have to use the walkie-talkie to get a medic in here.”

“No. No medic.” My teeth chatter through each word. A medic could end the race for me and for us. This chill will pass; I’m certain of it.