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Iwoke drenched in sweat.

The room was still dark, pre-dawn light running silver among the shadows. I was hot, too hot, and I peeled myself from Sebastien’s scorching embrace. His skin was slick, burning.

I gathered a sheet around my body as I slid from the bed, the pearly silk flecked with red. I hugged it to my chest as my feet met the cool floor, and caught sight of myself in the mirror opposite.

My reflection wavered in its distorted surface as I approached. A smear of crimson marked my neck and my stomach tightened at the memory of Sebastien’s hand there, his lips soon after. A shiver slipped through me. I really did look wicked.

I turned before the mirror, realising what he’d done. My shoulder was pale in the light, caked with dried blood, but the skin was smooth, unmarked. I stepped closer, eyes widening at the splintered image. All traces of my wounds – of Mors’ stitches – were gone.

He’d healed me.

‘Little blackbird, so entranced by her own reflection.’

I spun around to see Sebastien watching me, his head propped up among the cushions. Despite the lift of amusement on his lips, his skin was ashen, a sheen of sweat visible above his brow. Perspiration clung to his hair, beaded across his broad chest.

‘You look like death,’ I remarked, clutching the sheet tighter around me. I knew I should’ve thanked him, but acknowledging what he’d done made it hard to be angry. And if I couldn’t blame him for what had happened . . .

‘Then why don’t you make yourself useful and fetch me a wet cloth?’ he croaked, the harsh edge in his voice falling short.

I scowled. ‘To smother you with,’ I muttered. But his pallid expression worried me. I didn’t take the threat of fever lightly.

I took a clean rag from the nightstand and rinsed it in the small basin of water, my hands sending a swirl of red into the bowl.

‘I didn’t know you could heal others,’ I remarked, wringing out and passing him the damp cloth. He took it with a grunt. ‘All this time, you could’ve used your powers to do good.’

Sebastien shrugged, wiping his forehead with the cool fabric. ‘And why would I do that?’

Why do it for me? I wanted to ask, pulling a chair from the window to his bedside with a huff. I’d seen fevers leach the life from Felicie’s eyes one too many times, and I was beginning to suspect even the Heartless King couldn’t fight off death forever. ‘You’re telling me that in three hundred years, you’ve never once used your powers to help someone?’

‘I did once,’ he remarked, bringing the cloth down across his chest. ‘And I never intended to do it again. So try to keep out of trouble, will you?’

You’re the trouble, I thought churlishly, as he settled back into the cushions with a groan.

Sebastien’s features blanched as he drew short breaths, chest rising and falling sharply. I watched him, remembering how invincible he’d seemed just last night. My mind couldn’t help wandering there, remembering other things . . . His lips, the graze of his teeth. The drag of his hands in my hair, the smell of sweat and salt as his powerful arms bound me to him like ropes.

I leaned forward, elbows braced on the side of the mattress, missing his warmth, knowing I shouldn’t. His breathing had shallowed, the colour all but drained from his skin. He looked like stone, the immortalised effigy of some war god whose battles still raged beneath the waves. Ancient, young, inhuman.

‘Are you still alive?’ I whispered.

One eye blinked open. ‘If I’d known how much you’d pester me, I would’ve killed you the moment we met.’

I flashed him a mock smile. ‘Glad to see the fever hasn’t weakened your humour.’

Sebastien huffed a laugh in response, his arm reaching out across the bed towards me, fingers stretched open, inviting. ‘Come back.’

‘Why?’ I asked, incredulous.

He arched an eyebrow, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips. ‘You look cold,’ he offered, voice hoarse.

My arms tightened around myself, resisting the pull of his tides, the growing ache in my stomach. I tore my eyes away.

‘I’m fine,’ I said stiffly, drawing back.

It wouldn’t be long before daylight crept through the stillness, and I slunk back to my bedroom to bathe, torn chemise clutched tight around my wintry body. I’d return to check on him soon – but watching over Sebastien felt safer once he was sleeping.

The bath was already waiting for me, filling the room with steam and the scent of rosewater. Dried blood still caked my skin and the scent of him clung to me like a shadow.