Page 72 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

Cassia startled. Rhodes and Caius froze before rushing to the bedside. She stood and stepped away, giving the three a moment of privacy.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Ark rasped, his voice raw and thin. His eyes were still closed, as though he didn’t have the energy to open them. “Caius was right. I was . . . distracted. I shouldn’t have moved before we were all ready.”

Rhodes crouched beside the bed, arms braced on his knees. “I was three seconds from position. You didn’t need to go in.”

“I know.”

When Caius motioned her to come closer, she knelt beside the bed, careful not to jostle him, careful not to let her hands do what they wanted—touch, check, make sure he was still alive.

Up close, the smell of scorched cloth mingled with the faintest trace of cedar and smoke. His breath came ragged, uneven. His mouth was set in a hard line, but she could see the tremor. The fight to stay composed. The fight not to let them see just how much this cost.

And it had cost him. She didn’t need a healer’s lens to see that. It was written in the bruising beneath his skin, in the white of his knuckles where his good hand fisted into the sheets. In the fact that he hadn’t opened his eyes—not even now.

“This is a new low,” she said gently, “even for the Idle Prince.”

His long lashes stirred. His eyes flickered open, and what gazed upon her was no longer the flat, dull gold of his glamour, but molten amber threaded with copper and bronze, the colour of embers that had never cooled. A colour that didn’t belong to mortals. She should’ve been startled by the weight behind his eyes—the generations of magic staring back at her, the purest kind Meredith would ever know.

But all she felt was pain beneath her ribs.

“All because you didn’t reply to my last missive,” Ark rasped, a tiny smile ghosting his lips. “A demon has rights. Including the right to acquire a curse wound just to secure his Chosen’s attention.”

A brittle laugh escaped her. She hated how relieved she was to hear his voice again, teasing and impossible, even like this. Hated how easily it undid her.

“You nearly died,” Cassia murmured, “for a reply.”

“I was aiming for mildly injured. The curse was an unforeseen variable.”

She brushed a damp strand of hair from his brow. “Insufferable demon.”

“Yet, it brought you to me. Brushing hair from my brow. Looking at me like I’m not an entirely lost cause.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. “I’m checking your pupils. For head trauma.”

“Mm. How do they look?”

She held his golden, shimmering gaze for a beat too long. His pupils were beautiful—he was beautiful. “Uneven. You might have lasting damage.”

His smile widened, just slightly. “I’ve been told that before.”

Helplessly, she chuckled. Even battered like this, he was still Ark. Her fingers ached to touch him—not his hand, not his brow, but him. To press her palm to his chest and feel his heartbeat. To curl up beside him and not leave. Her eyes slid down to his lips. They were dry and cracked. She didn’t care. She wanted to kiss him. Here. Now. In the middle of his secret lair, with his blood still on her hands. The urge pressed against her sternum, hot and reckless and too loud to ignore.

From the doorway, Rhodes cleared his throat. “Not that this isn’t fascinating, but how do you really feel?”

Beside him, Caius sighed. “As much as we’d love to watch this play out, perhaps we could focus on the medical update for now.”

Cassia jerked back, her face flooding with heat. She hadn’t realized how close she’d been leaning, how long she’d been staring at his mouth—with an audience at the door.

Ark’s throat worked before he managed, hoarse, “I’m fine. Just a little nauseated. And my right arm feels like a hellhound mistook it for a chew toy.”

“That sounds promising,” she said dryly, reaching for the thermos in her satchel and pouring a little of its content into a cup. Herb-scented steam rose into the air.

“Here. Drink this beef bone broth. I made it this morning.”

He brought the cup to his lips without protest. One sip turned into two. Then three, and he drank the rest without complaint.

She watched him closely. The tension in his face eased. A hint of warmth crept back into his cheeks. By the time he set the thermos down, his eyes were already drifting shut.

Cassia tucked the blanket higher across his chest. Her healing skills were rustic at best, and she wasn’t a High Witch or a Grand Mage—not by any standards—but she’d long since learned to weave healing into her food. Her spells weren’t dramatic, but they were steady. Restorative and quiet, the kind of enchantments that worked best when no one was watching.