35. Hector

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

HECTOR

P aris was keeping vigil over me. Presumably, Helena had to sleep sometime. The sky outside the cracked window was dark and inky, and the fire burned low in the hearth.

My little brother had taken up the habit of telling me stories. It was a nice way to pass the time—less because I paid attention to the movement of the plot and more because his voice was smooth, flowing constantly, and steady. With his gentle heart and hopeful outlook, perhaps Paris was more like our father than any of us had been.

As I drifted, it was almost like Father was there, reading to me as a father might any son. He had rarely had time for that with me. Or, well... it wasn't a matter of time so much as circumstance. Grief had taken too much out of him, and I'd been witness to all of it.

Paris and Helena had been the bright spots that kept us both afloat.

Still, there was comfort in the stories now, and when Paris ran dry of them, he took books from the Hawk collection—simple stories of goodness and evil and what we could all do for one another.

I woke, not because he was speaking, but because he'd stopped.

There was a scuffle in the hallway, and Brandon came in, wild-eyed and alarmed before he saw Brett sitting in the corner. Almost as often as Paris had been at my bedside, Brett had as well. He cared about me, certainly, but I thought he was there for Paris—to bolster him if something went wrong. I was grateful for it.

Paris stopped reading, and Brett set up right, but Brandon made no announcements to the room at large. Instead, he crossed in quick steps, moving so fast that he had to steady himself with a grip on Brett's shoulder as he leaned down.

He said something quiet in the chief's ear, and Brett's expression closed off in a flash. "Excuse me."

They both left the room, Paris staring after them.

"Do you need to go?"

He shook himself and adjusted the book on his lap.

"No, no. If Brett needs something, he'll say so."

Paris took up reading again, and I fell asleep before Brett returned.

He wasn't back when I next woke, and Paris was gone, but Helena was there. When I first came to, I watched as she paced across the room beyond the foot of the bed, her hand curled over her mouth. I thought she was biting her fingernails—I hadn't seen her do that since—well, since King Albany had stated his intention to marry her to Prince Tybalt.

"What's happened?"

At my question, she froze and blinked at me, wide-eyed. Her face was pale and sunken. Even the light of the sunrise beyond the window didn't give her a golden glow, but fell across her horrified expression and was lost.

Her lips were pale and trembling. She curled her fingers in and tucked her fist against the hollow of her throat, bending over it like she could make herself small and?—

Had I taken a turn? I didn't feel worse than before. If anything, the clarity that always came after a decent sleep had me feeling more like myself.

Or it would've, if my stomach didn't twist with concern.

"Helena, what's wrong?"

She wrung her hands together and shook her head, blinking fast and avoiding my gaze. "Killian's been hurt."

"What? How?" In Hawk lands? It was impossible. He was a friend there, and they were farmers . Perhaps he'd taken a fall off a horse or something of the like, but the man could fly . Why bother with riding when I wasn't tagging along, demanding it of him?

Helena swallowed. "An attack. Or—he stopped it before anyone?—"

"The Falcon?" Heat and fury made my head pound.

She shook her head. "From the south. It's... rather bad."

That was Urial for "Killian's on death's door."

I threw myself out of bed. Unused muscles in my legs spasmed at the sudden movement, and I caught myself on the headboard.

"What are you doing?" Helena exclaimed, rushing up to catch my arm and steady me, trying to press me back into the bed.

"I'm fine. I'm fine. Let me go." I jerked away from her. I had to get?—

Had to?—

I crashed out of the room, unsteady and completely lacking grace, and Helena followed behind. Brett's home was full—fuller than I'd ever seen it—but the activity was concentrated around the chief's own room.

People were rushing in and out, but Brett himself was one still point, stationed right outside.

I stared, and he caught my eye. After a moment, he inclined his chin.

"They're doing what they can," he said softly.

As I rushed past him, he followed, and?—

And there Killian was, his face paler than his silver hair, his purpled eyelids closed. There was blood—sheets sopping with it, pushed into the corners of the room. Buckets turned red from the effort of cleaning him.

He was naked—covered to his hip with a sheet. A pulley had been rigged over the bed frame to hold one leg up, so the sheet slipped down his calf. But moving higher—there was an enormous bandage wrapped around his middle, thick and white and already stained with a spot of red.

My knees hit the wooden floor as I stared, but I was scarcely aware of the pain that rushed up my legs.

All I could do, as healers rushed around and Rosaline brought supplies and Brett tried to comfort me, was stare at Killian's still form and will whatever life remained in me to preserve him too.