Page 49 of The Hidden Fae Prince
“Balance.”
Seren nods, reflective. Not nearly as nervous as he should be with a griffon looming nearby. “Right. You’ve said that before.”
“There’s a lot to remember.” Once again Nevander wishes they’d had more time before Haelwen’s death. He could have brought Seren home and turned him loose in the libraries. Watched him revel in histories and legends, learning the songs of his home realm, without the weight of a broken crown.
Nevander should fill this wait with useful action. “Let’s see if this griffon will permit us to sit. I’d like to bandage your arm.”
“If I sit, I may not stand up,” Seren says, but lowers himself to the ground anyway.
The griffon remains still.
Every instinct tells Nevander not to relax in front of an opponent. Resisting those instincts, he kneels at Seren’s side.
The griffon settles into a cat-like loaf. Its eyes lower to half-mast.
“May I?” Nevander asks, already touching Seren’s blood-stiff sleeve before realizing it.
Seren opens his mouth, then catches himself. “May you what?”
“Well learned,” Nevander says, and oh. He should praise Seren more. The way Seren’s eyes light up is entrancing. “May I examine your arm?”
“You may,” Seren allows, still pleased.
Nevander peels up the sleeve carefully. His anger at Primrose recedes to a dull throb. Still present, but productivity helps. Seren’s cuts are mostly shallow beneath the torn fabric. He barely flinches with movement.
These injuries shouldn’t have happened, but unlike the threats looming against Summer—the augray incursions, themystery of Haelwen’s death—they’re something Nevander can fix.
Nevander pulls his healing elixir from his carryhold, along with a water flask and hand towel. “Remove your shirt. I have a spare.”
Seren glances between Nevander and the griffon, who remains motionless except for a gently waving tail. Not a threat. Yet Seren regards Nevander with the same trepidation.
Right. Seren was raised by humans, who tend to value modesty more than fae. Nevander should offer to turn away. Except Seren’s already wrenching his ruined shirt over his head.
“Do you have an entire storage cellar in that carryhold?” Seren asks, his hair askew in a halo. Beneath streaks of dried blood, his body balances lean muscle and softness. He hasn’t lived a life of leisure.
Meeting Seren’s golden eyes—both hesitant and defiant—feels even more vulnerable.
“Just the essentials.” Nevander reaches, and a folded shirt appears in his hand. He sets it on the carpet of leaves, then wets the hand towel. “Let me see your arm.”
Seren extends his arm again, this time bare except for streaks of blood. Maintaining control, he only allows the barest weight to rest in Nevander’s hands. Tension hums beneath gleaming pale skin. At any moment, Nevander expects Seren to insist on cleaning the blood away himself, and Nevander will have no excuse to refuse him.
Instead, Seren relaxes. “You didn’t warn me my blood would sparkle.”
“I didn’t expect you to bleed again so soon,” Nevander says, reaching for Seren’s other arm.
Seren turns his wrist obligingly. Dampness highlights the faint shimmer. “I’ll try to avoid evil flower petals in the future. Does your blood glitter, too?” Seren laughs at himself. “Sorry. That was a strange question.”
“Don’t apologize lightly,” Nevander says, even though he’s growing to like Seren’s apologies. They’re not a sign of guilt, but consideration. Unfastening one gauntlet, Nevander adds, “I’m not bleeding, but I likely have some bruises from our feathered companion.”
Ten feet away, the griffon rests with its beak nestled on its talons. No considerate apologies there. Just an illusion real enough to leave an impact in Nevander’s flesh. Bruises mottle his forearm, already shimmering a deep purple.
Seren shifts closer, hair falling into his face. “May I?”
“May you what?” Nevander echoes, and by his smile, Seren catches the subtle tease. But before Seren can clarify, Nevander allows, “Go ahead.”
“You should be more careful.” Seren looks up through shadow-blue lashes. Delicate fingers trace Nevander’s bruises. “These trials are mine. I don’t like that you’re hurt.”
Nevander’s always careful, but no blade could match such reckless tenderness. No shield could deflect such dangerous caring. Nevander has no defense against his own sudden arousal.
