Page 27 of Heart’s Rescue

“I’m so sorry,” he rasps. “My brother has the worst sense of humor in the Lands Below.”

“Best,” Rowan replies drily.

“You should have just let me die,” Phaedron replies.

I try not to let anything show on my face as Rowan sits down beside Phaedron, unscrews the little bottle, and tilts some of whatever’s inside between Phaedron’s lips. Rowan saved him? Even wrapped in bandages and immobilized on the bed, I can tell Phaedron’s the larger and stronger of the two brothers. And Rowan doesn’t have a mark on him, or at least nothing that I can see.

The sharp rap of knuckles on wood jolts me from wherever in the stars my mind was about to wander. Rowan and Phaedron exchange a look, all tense muscles and wide eyes.

“Charay,” Phaedron says.

I’m not sure if the word is a name or some kind of code, but Rowan's shoulders relax. He jumps from the bed and calls, “I’m coming, I’m coming.”

Rowan crosses the room, then leans against the wall and opens the door just a crack. I shy back, pressing myself into their little kitchen nook.

And then Rowan yanks back from the door as though he’s been bitten. He slams it shut, turns to Phaedron, and then turns to me. Then he’s by my side so quickly I feel like he must have teleported. His hand wraps around my arm, rough and strong.

“Quiet,” he whispers. His voice is low, his breath hot on my neck.

He swings the pantry door open and shoves me inside. The door closes with a whisper of wood on wood. I blink in the sudden darkness, then rub my arm where he’d grabbed me. Rude. There’s the sound of another door opening, and then Rowan's voice fills the little cabin.

“Aloserin, Acting Captain of the Royal Guard,” Rowan booms, a little too cheerfully. “To what do I owe this unmitigated pleasure?”

“Can it, Rowan,” an unfamiliar male voice grumbles. “Are you going to let me in or not?”

“You gonna arrest me if I don’t?” Rowan replies.

“I might.”

There’s a long, tense moment of silence. I can make out the edges of the pantry’s door frame, silhouetted in flickering firelight.

“Rowan,” Phaedron says, and it’s part warning, part sign of resignation.

The door hinges squeal, and there’s the sound of boots on wood. I imagine I can feel the rush of cold air as the stranger enters the cabin. Then the door swings closed again.

“Phaedron,” the male voice says. Rowan called him Aloserin, I think. “How are you?”

“Been better,” Phaedron replies, as casually as though they were discussing the weather.

“Well, Aloserin,” Rowan says, “I’d offer you a seat, but I’d hate to encourage you to stay.”

“Rowan.” That warning growl from Phaedron again.

I lean forward despite myself. It’s not exactly eavesdropping if they had no reasonable expectation of privacy.

“I’ll be quick then,” Aloserin replies. “Rowan, we need you.”

There’s a pause, just long enough for me to be aware of the rasp of my own breath.

“Sorry,” Rowan replies. “I’m saving myself for marriage.”

I clasp my hand over my lips before I can do something unthinkable. Like laugh.

“Damn it, Rowan,” Aloserin snaps, and I’ve only known Rowan for a handful of hours but I can already tell that was exactly the reaction he wanted. “This is serious!”

“What?” Rowan replies, sounding horrified. “Are you trivializing the great institution of marriage?”

Another pause. A loud sigh. I reach my fingers up to a shelf to steady myself.