Page 10

JAX

Despite my vow, we don’t fight.

Tycho climbs down the ladder to strip Mercy of her gear and returns with some saddle blankets thrown over one arm and the lantern swinging from the other. He lashes the lantern to a post and lowers the wick a bit, until we’re surrounded by flickering shadows. There are some dusty, narrow cots in the corner, but Tycho spreads the saddle blankets over the soft piles of alfalfa near the far end of the loft, and we sprawl there instead, listening to the night. If anyone finds us here, we plan to say that Teddy seemed colicky, but we knew Master Hugh was away and we didn’t want to leave the horse unattended.

We’ve been mostly silent, exhaustion looming, but neither of us has said a word about sleep. Not with the prospect of him leaving in a matter of hours. He’s worried about leaving me , but somehow I’m supposed to watch him climb aboard his horse, knowing he’ll be a potential target. I imagine a scraver ripping him right off the back of Mercy, only he’d be alone, no one to help him. Or someone like Alek lying in wait, arrows nocked, ready to fire as soon as Tycho rode into view.

But I can’t seem to focus on any of that, because Tycho is propped up on one elbow, gazing down at me in the shadows. He’s been winding a lock of my hair through his fingers. Over . . . ?and over . . . ?and over again.

Most of the unease has finally escaped his eyes, and I wish he could always look like this, with gold sparking in his hair and nothing but warmth between us. I want him so badly that I can feel it through every fiber of my body. I reach up and stroke a finger across his cheekbone, and he turns his head to kiss my fingertips.

I’ve missed this Tycho.

But much like when we were traveling with the soldiers, I sense that there’s still a guardedness in him. It’s softened now that we’re alone, but I’ve begun to realize that it’s not about me at all. It’s more than just gossip or discretion, despite what he says.

He’s so accomplished and capable that I always have to remind myself that Tycho’s cool reserve is really just a different type of armor he wears. A different way of protecting himself when his strength and weapons aren’t enough.

“You look so serious,” he says. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking you’re beautiful.” I trace a finger across his lips. “And your accent is thicker here.”

He’d started to blush, but at that, he blinks. “Is it?”

I nod, then stretch languorously, because my limbs keep threatening to force me into sleep against my will.

His eyes follow my movement, filling with heat, and I watch his throat jerk as he swallows. His hand tugs on my hair, just a bit harder this time.

My own resolve isn’t so strong. If he keeps doing that to my hair, I’m going to start unlacing his trousers.

“I won’t be gone long,” he’s saying. “If I can, I’ll turn back at once. I’ll depart the Crystal Palace the very instant I deliver the message.”

If I can. I hate that he’s always beholden to someone else’s whims.

I brush a thumb over his lips again. “Four days out and four days back, right?”

He nods. “Promise me you’ll go to Prince Rhen if the soldiers cause problems for you.”

“I will,” I say breezily.

But I won’t.

Tycho isn’t fooled. “Master Garson, then. Promise me, Jax.”

I try to ignore the tightness in my chest as I remember the soldiers who glared and muttered when I was sitting on the wagon this morning—or the ones who spit at us in the stables. But Tycho doesn’t need to carry my worries with him. He’s got enough of his own.

“I’m no stranger to rough travelers,” I say. “And some of the soldiers were friendly. I rather liked Sephran and Malin. Kutter, too. He was an officer, wasn’t he?” I cast my gaze at the ceiling, trying to remember. They tried to tell me, but I couldn’t keep the words for all the ranks straight. I just remember the insignia on his shoulder.

“A first lieutenant,” says Tycho.

“And Malin speaks some Syssalah.” I think of the way he’d tease Sephran—and me too. I smile. “He knows all the profanity, anyway. But at least I won’t be completely alone.”

Tycho is quiet for a moment. “Well, you won’t see Malin until I get back. Prince Rhen doesn’t want me to travel unguarded, so he’ll be making the journey with me.”

“Oh.” I’m glad Tycho won’t be on his own, but I can’t help the flicker of disappointment. It’s stupid, because I hardly know Malin—but he spoke my language and he wasn’t a total ass who wanted to string me up from a tree, so right now, he’s practically my best friend.

“You’re disappointed?”

“A little.”

Tycho’s eyes flick up, just a bit, and this time he gives my hair a not-quite-gentle tug. “Oh. Well. Sorry.”

A new note has entered his voice, and I can’t quite parse it out. When I finally do, I almost can’t believe it.

I shove myself upright and grab hold of his wrist. “ Tycho. ”

He stares at me, his eyes in shadow. “What.”

“Are you . . . jealous ?”

“No.”

But he is. He absolutely is. I lean in close, until my lips almost brush his and he shifts forward like he’s going to meet me for a kiss.

But I draw back an inch. “ Liar ,” I whisper.

He falls back on the blankets, and the straw rustles. “All right, fine.” It’s dark, but I could swear he’s blushing. “You know I have no practice with courtship. And I’m glad they were kind. Truly. I want you to find friends here.”

I can’t decide if this is adorable or hilarious. Either way, I’m fully awake now. “You have no reason to be jealous. All we talked about was archery.”

“Ugh.” He rubs his hands over his face. “That’s worse .”

It’s so unexpected that I burst out laughing. “You’re jealous that they taught me about weaponry ?”

He drags his hands down to look up at me. “Maybe.”

Adorable. He’s adorable. “Would now be a poor time to mention that I had an entire lesson in fletching from Kutter?”

He narrows his eyes. “Now you’re teasing me. Kutter doesn’t speak any Syssalah at all .”

“I’m not! Sephran helped. Look.” I pick up a few pieces of hay and blow it through my fingers, miming a breezy day. “ Wind, ” I pronounce carefully in Emberish, then repeat it in Syssalah. “Yes?”

Tycho rises up on his elbows, watching me warily, like I’m trying to trick him. But he nods. “Yes.”

I hold up a hand, measuring a distance of about an inch between my thumb and forefinger. “ Short ,” I say in Emberish, then whistle and make a fast motion with my hand like an arrow. “ Good for wind. ”

He stares at me.

“You want to hear more?” I grin and widen my fingers to two inches. “ Long ,” I say. “ Good for— ”

“Silver hell.” He grabs hold of my waist and flips me onto my back, and it’s so quick and unexpected that it steals my breath—especially when he lands straddling my waist, his hands seizing my own, intertwining our fingers. I’m laughing, ready to tussle, but his mouth finds mine, and he draws at my tongue in a way that has me wanting to unlace his trousers again.

When he finally pulls away, he’s a bit breathless. So am I.

“Don’t you want to hear the rest of my lesson?” I tease.

He winds a hand through my hair and pulls taut, then shifts against me until I feel the full weight of his body. I inhale sharply, my teasing forgotten.

“What lesson?” he says against my ear.

“Make me forget it,” I whisper, the words rough and low.

The words are hot and daring, meant to be playful, but Tycho goes still. He gazes down at me, his eyes warm and dark. For an instant, I worry that I’ve pushed too far, that the moment will snap again, that he’ll pull away.

But Tycho gives me a nod. “As you say.”

With that, his hands slide under my tunic, baring my abdomen, then my chest. The cool night air finds my skin, and it’s so quick and unexpected that I suck in a breath, but then he leans down and draws my nipple right between his teeth. I cry out, arching against him, but I’m pinned.

My hands reach for him, seeking skin, but he’s already moving, his weight shifting deliciously. He’s straddling my thighs now, and I realize he’s tugging at my tunic, pulling me upright again, dragging it over my head. I grab hold of his vest, tugging at the lacings, intending to undress him just as efficiently.

His hands close over mine, pulling them away, gently pushing me back against the blanket. It leaves him hovering over me, his brown eyes staring into mine.

“I’m supposed to be making you forget about fletching lengths and arrow speed,” he says ruefully.

“What’s an arrow?” I say.

He smiles—but then sadness flickers through his eyes. “Ah, Jax.”

Oh no. I’m not losing him to this again. “Wait, I’m starting to remember. Did Kutter say that wide fletching was for—”

He dives down to kiss me, and for all his fierce strength, there’s always something so . . . tender about the way his mouth moves against mine. He pulls at my lips and draws my tongue into his mouth like it’s something he wants to savor . When he frees my wrists, I slide my hands up his jaw to twist my fingers through his hair.

But then I realize that his weight no longer pins me to the floor, and his fingers have nimbly untied the lacing at my waist. He’s not usually so forward, so I’m not prepared when his hand slips fully under my trousers and his fingers close around me.

My entire body gives a jolt, and I cry out into his mouth.

He catches me somehow, which is good, because I suddenly feel like I’m falling. His free hand is tangled in my hair, and his mouth is still drawing at mine, his kisses slowing as he strokes the length of me. I might be clutching at him.

“Yes?” he whispers against my lips, his breath sweet and warm.

Yes, please, anything at all, yes. But I can’t speak. I’m gasping, nodding, my world narrowed to the heat in my belly and the slow movement of his hand. By the time his lips trail a line of kisses down my chest, my veins are full of fire. When his mouth joins his hand, I have to press a fist to my lips to keep from crying out. I lose all sense of myself.

I might be whispering his name, I might be whimpering, I might be flying.

I do know I don’t last long at all .

When I’m no longer shuddering, he crawls back up my body, tugging my trousers back, dropping a kiss on my bare shoulder, tucking himself against me.

I turn my head and stroke a hand across his cheek. His eyes are warm and dark and intent on mine, and I would lie like this forever.

But we can’t. Because he’s leaving. Again.

The thought enters my head without warning, and I close my eyes before he can see it register in my expression.

But then he murmurs, “You’re the one that’s beautiful, Jax.” There’s so much reverence in his tone that it makes me blush and shiver.

Tycho shifts closer, his hand splaying over the center of my bare chest. “Are you cold?”

He says it with such care, like he’d burn down the world to keep me warm. I shake my head. “I’m not cold.”

The fire in my veins has turned to molten honey, and I stroke a hand across his cheek again, very aware of the hard weight of him pressed against the outside of my thigh. I reach lower, my fingers grazing the fabric of his trousers. I barely touch him and his breath hitches, so I flick my wrist and tug the laces free.

But he catches my hand, gripping my fingers in such a way that I can’t tell if he’s trying to slow me down or stop altogether.

The air has changed slightly, and I turn my head to look at him. His eyes are so dark and inscrutable, and I can feel his heartbeat against me, quicker than it should be.

“Yes?” I whisper.

His grip loosens, just a bit—but he doesn’t answer.

It’s terrifying to think that others might read his silence as consent. His loyalty, once won, seems to run so deeply that he’ll sacrifice even the most wounded parts of himself, no matter what it costs him. Just like the reason he’s leaving tomorrow. No one ever allows him to choose. No one ever waits for him to yield.

So I wait.

Eventually, he draws a heavy breath and lets go of my wrist, stroking a slow path up my bare arm. I let my hand fall against his waist, and he shifts closer to me, his lips brushing against mine.

I can still feel him pressing against my thigh, so I know the desire isn’t gone—but I don’t reach for him this time. He kisses me slowly, his hand gentle against my face, and I kiss him back, my lips drawing at his. Chaste. Gentle. Patient.

But there’s still . . . something . Something unspoken, something unsaid. A weight in the air that warns me to tread carefully. When he tucks his face against my neck and rests a quiet hand over my heart, I don’t move.

“No?” I whisper, but this time it’s not really a question at all. I already know. It’s clear.

He makes an unhappy sound. “Not no . Just . . .”

“Not yet?”

He hesitates, then nods against me. I kiss his forehead, then rest my hand over his, holding his palm against my heart.

His breathing slows, and the tension slips out of the air, as if he needed me to accept his hesitation. As if he couldn’t relax until he knew I wouldn’t push. He’s so warm against me, and I feel the tug of sleep pulling at both of us. In fact, Tycho might already be there.

It takes me longer. My thoughts keep working, wound up in his hesitation and what it means. How it relates to his waiting anger. His readiness to fight.

But when he sighs against me, I realize it’s the first time I’ve seen him relax in days. Maybe weeks. I chase the thoughts out of my head.

There will be enough time for worry later. For now, I just breathe.

We don’t sleep very long. I don’t know what wakes me, but the pitch-dark sky outside the hayloft doors hasn’t gained a single thread of sunrise. Tycho is still curled against me, but his eyes are open and trained on the rafters overhead, glittering faintly in the dying lantern light. It makes me wonder if he really slept at all.

It almost feels like a dream when he says, “I don’t hate him, Jax.”

I lift my head just enough to look at him, but he doesn’t move, not even to look at me.

His voice is so serious, as if he’s trying to convince himself. But I felt his anger. His resentment. I’ve been feeling it for days. He’s certainly not going to convince me.

Then he turns his head to look at me. “I do hate the soldiers, though.”

A note in his voice tells me this is about more than the jealousy we teased about earlier.

Part of the reason I resent the prince is that Tycho endured so much when he was young, well before he ever came to Ironrose—and then he got caught up in a fight for a throne he had nothing to do with. He was already broken and abused long before the prince ever gave him those scars on his back. It’s a vulnerability Tycho keeps hidden, buried so deeply beneath training and armor and violent skill that I’m not sure many people even know.

Tycho’s eyes shift back to the rafters. “I served in the army in Syhl Shallow, and that was hard enough.” He draws a sharp breath. “I never would have joined the army here. Never. Not after what those soldiers did to my family.”

And what they did to him .

Suddenly, I retrace all the moments we spent on the road, every man who glared or muttered a comment. I consider the way Tycho wouldn’t sleep or pulled away or kept his distance, and I reevaluate it all in a different light.

I consider the way he caught my hand, the way he pulled away tonight.

“I’ve been around them from time to time,” Tycho says. “I mean—- obviously . But I haven’t been a soldier in a while. And never . . . ?like that. Never like we were.”

No wonder he’s so angry. No wonder he wants to fight. It’s more than me. It’s more than his conflict with the king. It’s more than his orders.

It’s an enemy he can’t defeat. A wrong he can’t right.

I frown. “I shouldn’t have teased you—about the archery—”

“No—Jax. Stop.” He scowls and runs a hand across his face. “This is stupid. It’s not you. It’s not even them . It’s me.” Now he swears. “Forget it. I hate this.”

“Hush,” I whisper, stroking a hand along his arm. But then I pause, reevaluating again. “Tycho, we don’t . . . ?we don’t have to lie here. I didn’t mean to—”

He grabs hold of me like I’m going to drift away. “Not you, Jax. Never you.”

I relax against him—but I’m not sure he does. We lie in silence again for the longest time, my fingers drifting along his forearm.

I wonder if he’s ever shared any of this with anyone, or if he’s kept it all trapped in his heart, allowing the pent-up emotion to escape when he couldn’t confine it anymore.

I think of what I know about him, and I suspect it’s mostly the latter.

“It’s over now anyway,” he says, and again, he sounds like he’s trying to convince himself. “I likely won’t have to travel with them again.”

“Except for Malin.”

He sighs. “It’ll be fine. Just out and back.”

I thread my fingers through his hair. “It’s all right to hate the soldiers, Tycho.” I pause. “It’s all right to hate the king, too.”

He flinches a little when I say that. “I don’t. Truly, I don’t.”

“Fine. It’s all right to be angry at him. He’s taken so much from you, and I don’t think he’s even aware of it.”

That forces him still. After a moment, he frowns. “He’s given so much to me.”

“That doesn’t mean you owe him your happiness.”

His frown deepens—but he says nothing. I sense that I’m pushing too hard, and I don’t want to fight, especially about this.

A hint of pink appears in the sky I can see through the hayloft doors, and we both frown.

He’ll have duties this morning, I’m sure. If he’s due to leave by midday, he’ll strap on his armor, saddle his horse, and head north for Syhl Shallow.

He’ll be the King’s Courier, and I’ll be the blacksmith left behind. The same as before.

“The night is ending,” he says, as if to confirm it.

I put a hand against his face. “Out and back,” I whisper. “And then you’ll be done with all your couriering.”

But he won’t. I know.

“I’ll return as quickly as I can,” he says. “And I’ll give you more than a night in a hayloft. We’ll ride to Silvermoon and eat too much and stay out too late and find an inn with a room to share.” He twists a finger through a lock of my hair. “I swear to you, Jax.”

I nod, but the words tug at me. For the first time, I consider that it’s not just his happiness at stake, the way his life proceeds at the whim of the king.

It’s mine, too.

But I won’t burden him with that. Not on the morning he’s due to leave, with threats at his back and a confrontation with the king in his future.

So I take his hand and kiss his fingertips. “Yes, my lord. I’ll be waiting.”