But the most painful of wounds that he could not understand—the most unthinkable of them—were those that covered her eyes.

Tender skin, raw and exposed. Lids damaged and carefully anointed with thick healing paste. Eyes wrapped with linen strips.

Eyes he’d dreamed of seeing.

He said not a word throughout the entire process. Not as her hair was brushed, then secured, nor as a bedgown of Isabelle’s was slipped onto her, followed by a dose of God knows what potion. He merely stood there, his body so tight with tension ’twas a wonder he’d not snapped from within.

Two pairs of eyes turned to him: his mother’s and Anna’s. But ’twas Isabelle’s touch to which he responded. He’d no idea she was in the room.

“Greylen, see to your bath,” she instructed softly.

He stared at her upturned face, hearing her words clearly, yet unable to move.

“Greylen, Anna will bring refreshments. Mother and I will stay, I swear to you. Please, Greylen,” she pleaded. “See to your needs.”

He gave a nod in her direction, then removed himself to the bathing chamber. His needs at the moment were vast. Isabelle, however, had the decency not to throw it in his face. He’d been covered in sweat and dirt when the storm finally broke, then purged of it by the cold waters. Covered with sand from the shore, and then sweat once again as he swallowed true fear.

The bathwater once hot had cooled considerably. He scrubbed his body thrice, his hair more as he rubbed his hands harshly into his scalp. He even shaved. He did everything he could to remain in the tub, when all he wanted was to climb into his bed. With her.

She ruled him already.

Donning a pair of drawstring trews, he left his sanctuary and returned to his quarters. The scene was unchanged. His mother’s gentle hand stroked a pale face, Isabelle’s supreme glow was barely held in check, and Anna, sewing basket at her feet, worked upon some garment with deft fingers.

Isabelle led him to a chair by the fire where he sat obediently, drinking the wine she’d placed in his hand. Then he cleared the plate she’d set upon his lap. Sustenance. He’d been long without it. So long it seemed to addle his brain. Too late, he realized he’d been given a potion as well. They had better have made a large dose of it, for if not, he would kill them.

He raised a brow as he looked at his mother’s profile, willing her to turn. She did, and damn if she didn’t look smug.

“By what right do you think to drug me?” he snarled in accusation.

“I know not of what you speak,” Lady Madelyn professed with false conviction.

“You lie, Mother,” he bit out reproachfully. “And you do it badly.”

“Greylen, drug is such a strong word.” She scoffed, hurrying on when he glared. “You’ve not slept for days. Think you could do so now?”