Page 31 of Keeping a Nymph’s Heart

He settled himself back on the balcony overlooking the gardens when his blood turned to ice.

A small bouquet of wildflowers lay discarded in a dark puddle that reflected the moonlight. It was darker in the garden than usual. But Owain quickly realized that the dark puddle was blood. His heart stopped at the realization, and time ceased to have meaning. At once things moved faster than he could comprehend and more slowly than he ever thought imaginable.

The blood was coming from Orla, but she wasn’t alone. A cloaked figure was straddling her as she crawled away. Owain screamed as he saw the person drive their dagger into Orla’s back. In an instant, he was moving. Chair knocked back, drawing discarded, he ran for the door.

He had to get there. He felt frantic with a drive to get to her. What if he was too late? What if she couldn’t defend herself? Part of him knew that was foolish. She was a decorated war hero and more than capable in a fight. But from what he saw from his balcony, she had been caught unawares, and he knew she was likely unarmed.

Passing by curious onlookers, Owain raced out of the palace and towards the gardens. Once outside, he screamed Orla’s name as he saw her stab her attacker over and over again before her hand went limp. “Orla!” he screamed again, fear searing through him. She had to be alive. Running to her side, Owain was shocked by how much blood had seeped into the ground beneath her. Hers or the attackers, he couldn’t tell.

Shoving the attacker off her, Owain placed his fingers over the pulse in Orla’s neck. Her heart was still beating, but it was faint and erratic. As if she weighed less than nothing, he lifted Orla off the ground and cradled her to his chest. He kissed her head, noting how clammy her skin felt, as he ran back towards the palace.

If he thought he had made a spectacle running through the palace to get to her, it was nothing compared to the way he looked racing back to his room with a bloody and unconscious Orla in his arms. He rushed up the palace stairs towards his room, vaguely aware that Lords Calix and Patrin watched him carry Orla with tenderness that revealed his affections for her. Nor did he note the way the two slunk into Lord Patrin’s rooms as he rushed past into his own.

Kicking the door open, Owain hurried from the parlor into the bed chamber, placing Orla down on his bed, not caring that she was covered in blood and dirt. He rarely healed anyone with injuries this severe, except for himself, but he had to try. He couldn’t let her die.

Forgetting about the fact that his whole plan in Imsil was for Orla to pay for her crimes against his kingdom, he set to work. Her light blue dress was ripped and stained with blood. There were cuts along her arms and a deep gash on her thigh that would need his attention. He also sensed that several of her ribs were broken. Turning her onto her stomach, he examined her back. Three deep gashes ran along her back. The largest of them had definitely hit one of her lungs, her breathing making a wet rattling sound anytime she inhaled. Owain focused on the fatal wounds first, placing his hands on her damaged skin before opening the gates of his power.

Lost in focus, he hadn’t realized Chrys had entered the room. “What happened?” he asked, looking from Owain to Orla, eyes wide with shock.

“I don’t… I don’t know. She was attacked. Out in the gardens.”

Chrys darted over to the balcony and looked at the gardens while Owain continued his ministrations. It took longer than he would have liked, but slowly, the damage to her lungs and back started to heal. The rattling breaths became more even as he worked. He began working on the other back wounds. These ones were shallower than the first and healed more quickly.

When he got to her ribs, exhaustion was beginning to overtake him. It was rare for Owain to heal another person, and he had never been particularly good at it. Healing Orla’s small cut in the forest had been easy, but here he was needing to mend organs and bones. And that didn’t account for the blood loss, which he could do nothing about except pray to Jove, Amara, and any God that would listen that she could survive this.

Making his way to the cut on her thigh, he sobbed. He hadn’t even realized that his face was wet with tears. It had been so long since he had cried that the action felt foreign to him as if he were occupying the body of another. She was so still, her body icy, instead of her usual warmth. Though it taxed him, he used his other magic to warm the room. The results being that he was too depleted to heal the slice on her forearm.

Chrys returned to his side, helping him bandage the bleeding wound. Next, he filled a basin of water, placing it on the bedside table.

“Get a healer,” Owain said, his voice rough with emotion. With one hand clutching Orla’s, Owain began to wash the blood away from Orla’s face. He kissed her bloody hand over and over again, willing her to be okay.

Chapter Seventeen

Everything felt sore. There was a deep pounding behind her temples. Her mouth was dry and her lips chapped. Orla woke, head feeling like it had been cleaved in two. She tried to open her eyes, but her eyelids were as heavy as stone, so she used her other senses to figure out where she was. Cradled in something impossibly soft, she realized she was laying down in her bed. There was a dip next to her hip on the bed and a soft inhale and exhale. She wasn’t alone. Hints of cedar and charcoal filled her lungs as she breathed.

Slowly, she forced her eyes open. It took a moment for her blurry vision to become clear. She wasn’t in her room. This room was far grander, with powder blue paint accented with silver flowers adorning the walls. Sun shone through the large window, and airy gossamer curtains obscured her view beyond the window. The bed was plush and much larger than her bed at the palace.

The palace.

The attack.

She bolted upright, immediately regretting the sudden movement as her ribs smarted in protest, forcing her to lay back down.

“Orla,” a deep, groggy voice called. She looked down to see Owain, holding her hand, his head rising from the bed near her hip. He was laying awkwardly with his torso on the bed and his legs on the floor as though he fell asleep that way. Across from her, lounging in an armchair, was Chrys.

“Oh, thank Amara, you’re awake.” Owain let out a sigh of deep relief, reaching to cup her cheek. He looked exhausted. Deep purple circles stood out under his pale blue eyes that were puffy and rimmed with red. His hair stuck up at odd angles as if he had been pulling at it all night. It looked as though he hadn’t shaved in days. His normal dark stubble had become fuller, threatening to become a beard. His face and clothes were caked in blood. Her blood, she realized.

“How long have I been out?” she asked, voice weak from lack of use.

“Almost three days. Palace healers have been coming in to check on you, but they didn’t know if you’d sur—” He paused, taking her in. “Gods, I thought I had lost you.” His voice cracked with emotion as he placed his forehead on hers, hand stroking her cheek while the other held the nape of her neck. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

Before she could answer, Chrys interjected. “Can you tell us what you remember?”

“Do we have to do this now,” Owain asked, gaze not leaving Orla’s.

“If you want to quickly find out who did this, yes.”

A pointed look passed between Chrys and Owain that Orla couldn’t decipher. Clearing her throat, she began to recount the ordeal. Parts of her memory were fuzzy, she couldn’t tell them what the attacker looked like, other than they had been tall and had the ability to teleport. She started to stutter when she got to the point where she grabbed the rock to bludgeon the assassin.