“No, that probably wouldn’t stop me either.”
“Nice.”
“I do have a reason for being here.”
“Other than annoying me?” I countered.
“In addition to that.” His gaze dropped to my finger. I stopped messing with the ribbon as his eyes returned to mine. “I wanted to see how things went with your baron.”
I started to speak, somewhat relieved . . . and dismayed that he actually did have a reason to be here, but my gaze locked with his, and I suddenly wanted to ask if he ever thought of the young girl he’d found in the orphanage. I wanted to know if he had spoken to me like I believed he had, but Grady said was impossible. I wanted . . .
Clearing my throat, I looked away. “I did speak with him this morning. He was relieved that you were not here due to the King being displeased with him.”
“I never said the King wasn’t displeased with him.”
My head jerked back to him. An unsteady rush of breath left me. He was closer somehow; now less than a foot separated us. “What— ?”
Prince Thorne’s hand curled around my elbow, and before I knew what he was about, he lifted my right arm. The line of his jaw tightened. “You’re bruised.” The colors of his eyes had stopped moving, but his pupils had expanded. He carefully turned my hand over, exposing the inside of my wrist to the thin slice of sunlight. “I know I didn’t do this last night. Who did?”
I shook my head. “I didn’t even know it was bruised,” I lied, because there was absolutely no way I would speak the truth, not even to Grady. It was . . . it was just too embarrassing, and I knew it was wrong to feel that way, but it didn’t change how I felt. “I have no idea how that happened.”
“The bruises look like fingertips.” His voice was low, and a chill hit the air.
Tiny goose bumps appeared over my flesh as I glanced nervously around the chamber. “It must be an illusion.” I pulled at his hold.
Prince Thorne held on, sliding his long fingers over my wrist. They moved in slow, smooth circles. “Your skin is far too lovely to be bruised,” he remarked, some of the ice easing from his tone. “Tell me, na’laa, does your baron not treat his favorite . . . whatever you are well?”
“I . . .” I trailed off as he lifted my wrist to his mouth. He pressed his lips to the skin—lips that were hard and unyielding, and yet somehow soft as satin. My own parted as a strange tingling warmth spread across my wrist, easing . . . then erasing the ache there. I lifted my gaze to his as he lowered my hand to my lap. The bruises were gone. He’d done it again.
Maybe his kisses did heal?
His fingers glided up my arm. “Who bruised you?”
“I told you already. No one.”
He tilted his head, sending a wave of hair across his jaw. “Has anyone told you that you’re a terrible liar?”
“Has anyone told you that you know not what you speak of?” I snapped.
“Never.” His chin lifted, a quizzical look to his expression. “And no one has ever spoken to me like you do.”
That should’ve been a warning to watch my tone, but I huffed. “I don’t believe that for one second.”
“And I don’t believe you.”
“I think we’ve already established that,” I retorted.
White streaked across the blue of his eyes, then spread into the green. “Does the Baron treat you kindly?”
“Yes, he does.”
Another starburst exploded along the blue of his eyes. “What little I know already tells a different story.”
“How so?”
“I don’t think I need to explain how reckless he was with your life last night,” he said, a muscle thrumming at his temple. “But just in case you haven’t realized this— the Baron sent you into the quarters of a Hyhborn prince that was unaware of your arrival. My men could’ve killed you. I could have. Another of my kind would’ve done that and more.”
My skin chilled, not at his words but because I knew he spoke the truth.
“And he did this when it is clear that you’re not as experienced as you wanted so badly for me to believe,” he continued, and I jerked at the graze of his fingers along the curve of my arm. His featherlight touch kicked off a riot of confusing reactions. I should be angered that he was in my chambers, touching me and demanding answers of me.
Except I didn’t feel anger.
All I felt was the tight, shivery wave that followed the path of his fingertips over the curve of my elbow. How my skin suddenly felt hot as he caught hold of the loosened sleeve of my chemise, and . . . and anticipation.