He rubbed his face, every hour of wakefulness suddenly falling upon his shoulders, dragging his limbs down.

Unable to meet her gaze, he lifted her upright and pulled off the chemise. It took every lesson in discipline, in self-control, in stillness not to react and curl in upon himself at the painful contrast between her now and all the other times he’d seen her glorious naked body.

She wasn’t a shadow of herself, but something far less substantial—a spirit or an echo.

Wordlessly, he carried her to the bath and eased her into the steaming water. She sighed, eyes closing, expression momentarily so close to bliss, it twisted in his gut as sharp as a blade.

“Eat some more, and I’ll be able to heal your burns,” he murmured, placing a small table within her reach. Stew, bread, cheese, an apple, a slice of light lemon cake he’d bought this afternoon at a nearby bakery. He’d even splurged on a small bowl of almonds imported from Europa.

As she picked at the food, movements slow, clumsy, he took the sponge and the sweet-smelling soap he’d bought and set to work cleaning away the grime of imprisonment, so she’d pass as his wife.

Cruel Iron

An hour later, she was dry and dressed in a new chemise, a little colour in her cheeks.

Biting his lip, keeping his fingers from curving around her too much, he set her on the bed. He propped her against the stacked pillows. “Do you think you—”

“I feel a lot better already.” She nodded, blinking slowly. “I’m just—I can already feel the warmth leeching away.” She smiled tightly and tugged on his hand. “Come on, heal me—maybe it’ll warm me up.”

Chest aching, he sat on the bed and sandwiched her raw, blistered hands between his. They weren’t as cold and rough as they’d been earlier. That was progress.

With a wriggle, she brought herself closer, legs and body against him. She eyed him sidelong with a sardonic smirk. “Still warm, Blackwood. Still warm.”

He couldn’t help but snort at that echo of her usual self. Releasing her hands, he pulled the blankets over their laps, tucking her in.

She, of all things, rolled her eyes, which were deepest, darkest grey-blue tonight. “Thank you, Nurse Blackwood.”

It stung, but perhaps it was a sign she really was feeling better. If she’d made this much improvement already in just a few hours, maybe she’d make a full recovery at the same rate. That’s assuming she’d ever make a full recovery …

The thought jolted through him, forceful as a rifle shot.

Because the truth was, he didn’t know. There were stories about fae dying in iron but none about those who escaped and recovered. Who knew if they could recover or how long it might take? It was possible she’d be permanently weakened by this.