Mia continued to crush herself against him, arms locked around his neck, a frantic edge spiking her words. “I had so many nightmares. I saw you die.” Her breathing hitched. “You could have died and I’d never know. No one would tell me. I—I can’t lose you. I’ll go mad, I know I will. What if you never came back?”
The panic fraying her voice forced him to pull back. He held her face in his hands and thumbed away the tears that leaked from her wild brown eyes. “Mia, I’m fine. I’m here. I’ll always come back to you.”
“I can’t go back to a life without you,” she whispered, blinking rapidly. “I can’t.” A shudder wracked her body.
A bolt of unease shot down Grayson’s spine. He slid his hand up to her brow, and even through his leather glove, heat warmed his palm. His heartbeat stuttered. He tore his glove off with his teeth and pressed the back of his bare hand to her forehead.
She was hot with fever.
He swore. He should have realized it sooner. Would have, if not for the chill still in his bones and his cursed gloves. Grayson swept her into his arms, cradling her against his chest. Her grip around his neck didn’t loosen and her tears fell against his shirt as she continued to cry.
“Fletcher!” he roared.
The lock fumbled before the door swung open. The old guard’s eyes rounded at the sight of them.
Grayson strode forward. “Out of my way,” he barked.
The old guard’s throat bobbed, but he held his ground in blocking the doorway. Grayson might have been impressed, if he wasn’t ready to snap the guard’s neck.
“What’s wrong with her?” Fletcher asked.
Grayson grit his teeth. “She has a fever.”
The old man’s eyes darted over Mia, frowning. “That can be treated here, by her caretaker. Those are the king’s orders.”
Grayson’s nostrils flared. His rage was only partially for the man in front of him. Years ago, Grayson had once begged Henri for a physician to tend Mia—she’d been throwing up, unable to eat anything. His father had made it clear no resources were to be wasted on Mia unless she was on her deathbed. Henri had also kept Grayson so busy with extra training he couldn’t be with her while she struggled to recover with Mama’s sporadic care.
He’d learned his lesson; he wouldn’t draw his father’s eye toward Mia unless absolutely necessary.
Grayson twisted away from Fletcher with another curse. Mia whimpered as he lowered her onto the bed, and that small sound of pain cut him. He needed to cool her down.
He was aware of Fletcher leaving the room, closing the door and locking it, but his focus was on helping Mia. He killed the fire in the stove before removing his second glove and rolling Mia’s sleeves up her arms, letting the slight chill in the air brush her heated skin. He used the tepid water in the washbasin to wet a rag and then sat on the edge of the bed beside her.
Grayson had barely touched the wet rag to her temple when she grabbed his wrist, fingers digging into his skin. Her face twisted as she wept, shuddering with a pain he didn’t know how to soothe. “I’m sorry,” she cried. “I’m sorry I let go.”
His heart spasmed. She was delirious. She probably didn’t even see him. Not really. He strangled the cloth in his fist. “You’re going to be fine,” he said, forcing his voice to remain even.
Tears rolled down her cheeks and her mouth trembled. “It’s my fault,” she gasped. A rapid spill of words followed, but Grayson couldn’t understand her. Zennorian, Mortisian, Devendran, Rydenic—the languages twisted together, garbled and nonsensical. But her agitation was building, her sobs shaking her body.
He grasped her wrist, squeezing hard as he leaned over. “Mia, stop. You’re here with me. You’re safe.” Promise throbbed in his words, but she wasn’t comforted.
Her nails dug into his skin, her eyes clinging to his. “I killed you,” she gasped.
“You didn’t kill me, Mia. I’m right here.”
She shook her head, choking on her tears. “I deserve to die.”
“No.” Grayson’s stomach rolled at the self-loathing and agony in her pained words. His hold on her tightened. “Mia, what—?”
“I killed her!” Her brown eyes were blurry with tears and fever, but her fervency hit him hard. “They all died. Everyone died.” A spill of incoherent words followed and she thrashed her head away from him.
Grayson’s heart thudded. She wouldn’t release his wrist, so he grabbed the cloth with his other hand and began to bathe her face and neck, desperate to soothe her. But he couldn’t stop the torment in her mind. She continued to cry and often broke into muttering. Not everything was a confession; some of her words were softer, and even though he couldn’t understand most of it, he knew she was lost in the past. The details she shared were disjointed, giving him a glimpse into her life that he didn’t have enough context to actually understand. He only knew she was hurting and he couldn’t stop it. When she cried out for her mother, Grayson grit his teeth and thumbed her tears away, pleading with the fates to give her rest. Anything to take away her pain.
Perhaps a half hour later the cell door opened and Fletcher strode in, lifting a pouch. “I told the physician my wife had a fever,” he said, moving to the square table to prepare the medicine.
Before Grayson could decide to thank him, the door to the back room opened and Mama stumbled out. Her eyes snapped to him and she whitened. “Wha—what’s going on?”
Mia flinched at Mama’s voice.
Grayson fisted the wet rag, his jaw cracking as he faced the older woman. “Get out of my sight. Tell your husband neither of you are welcome here tonight.”
“But—we have orders from the king!” she protested.
“Your orders were to care for Mia,” he said darkly. “You failed. Tell the king if
