When he laughs, the muscles in his back flex under my fingers. “Yeah, well, I said it first.”
I grin into his shoulder. My “no reason at all” responses suddenly feel completely justified.
Nick lifts his head. His eyes roam over my face, my healed cheek, my torso. “Are you sure you’re okay?” His left hand hovers over my side, fingers lightly touching the cotton material covering the now deep purple–and–black bruise on my ribs. Then, he seems to recognize how close his fingers are to other parts of me, so he steps back. Our arms fall awkwardly to our sides.
I’m floored that he knew to check for an injury there—that he’d been paying such close attention to where the uchel grabbed me. And I’m drawn to the two strawberry-colored thumbprints staining his cheeks.
“Bruised,” I mumble, still warm and confused, “just bruised.”
His voice comes out a tiny bit hoarse. “Good.”
“Yes.”
“Right.”
I clear my throat. “How’s your head?”
He rubs at the back of it. “Feels like I bumped it?”
“That is both an unbelievable and normal response, isn’t it?”
“This is both an unbelievable and normal situation.” His eyes twinkle.
We stare at each other, wrestling with this moment that feels both new and unfamiliar, both what we asked for and something we didn’t expect. Nick’s eyes are the waiting color of overcast skies.
I turn away first. “So, this is your room.” Why did I say that? We already covered that, Bree. Jesus.
“I claim no responsibility for the decor.”
I was wrong. The room isn’t entirely lacking in Nick. There are a few personal items pinned on the corkboard mounted over his desk. When I move closer, I see one is a picture of an elementary-aged Nick in front of the red wolf habitat at the North Carolina Zoo. His hair is white-blond, and several teeth are missing from his smile. A junior high academic achievement award is pinned down below. The last item is a picture of Nick at eleven or twelve, Nick’s father, and a smiling blond woman who must be his mother. The woman has his eyes and smile, even if Nick’s grin is mostly metal braces in this photo. They’re standing in front of a large hill under a clear blue sky.
“Arthur’s Seat,” Nick informs me. “Dad took us to Edinburgh for summer vacation. Couldn’t resist the photo op with his Scion son.”
“You look happy.”
He tilts his head as if processing the idea. “We were. Then.”
“You never talk about your mother.”
His smile turns down on one end. “Another day.”
He studies me like he did the first night we met. That feels like forever ago, but it’s only been forty-eight hours. And in another forty-eight hours I’ll know more about my mother’s magic, and maybe my own.
“We need to talk.”
I raise a brow. “About the fact that you’re the descendant of King Arthur?”
“I’m not the descendant. I’m one of many.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask, irritation flaring.
Heat flashes through his eyes. “When could I have? When exactly, Bree? In the ten minutes before we walked into the Oath? In the two minutes before Sel attacked you?”
I cross my arms. “Yes.”
He glares at me, his jaw ticking. Inhales, then breathes out through his nose. “They tell you about the Lines?”
“I saw the Wall.”
“Who?”
“William.”
“And what else did William tell you?”
“I know about Camlann.”
His gaze hardens. “Then you know why I want you to forfeit.”
“I already told you I’m not quitting.” I blink, startled by the look on his face. “We made a deal!”
“And last night changed the deal. If Camlann is truly near, then becoming a Squire—mine, William’s, Pete’s—is too risky. You won’t be able to just bounce afterward because we’ll be at war.” He grabs me by the arms, inclining his head to meet my eyes. “People die during Camlann, Bree.”
Panic flutters in my chest like a caged bird. “No, this is the only way. This year. Right now.”
“I never should have agreed to this, but I wanted to help you. I—” His fingers tighten where they hold me. “Becoming a Squire during peacetime is one thing. Once I reclaimed my title, I’d planned to step in, get you out before you’re expected to take the Warrior’s Oath. But now? The Order is on alert, and I know Sel. He could be ordered to bond you to your Scion right away and… and I can’t let you do that.”
I pull out of his grip. I can see the word in his eyes even if he doesn’t say it: Abatement.
Nick doesn’t want me to suffer the consequences of bonding. Doesn’t want me to die before my time. The affection—and fear—on his face, all for me, makes my head swim. But there’s determination there, plain in the sharp angles of his brow and jaw. Right now, he’s giving me a choice to walk away. But now that I know who he is and what he could become, I know that choice could be taken from me.
I search his gaze, wondering. Would he do that? Have me thrown out? Would I let him?
Another tact first: “I can resist that Oath.”
“Maybe you can, but your Scion will know, so Sel will know. He’ll send you to the Regents.”
“And you can order him not to. Or we’ll find the information another way. Or maybe I take the Oath and just let it happen!” I throw up my hands. “I know about Abatement.”
His eyes widen like I’ve uttered a word not spoken in polite company. “That’s—”
“What I’m willing to risk to find the truth!” He begins to protest, but I cut him off again. The decision became clear as soon as I said it aloud. “She’d have done the same for me.”
After a long, measuring look, he finally nods. “I don’t like it, but I understand.”
The tension in the room dissolves some, and I can breathe easier. “Maybe Camlann won’t come after all. William said Arthur hasn’t Called his Scion in two hundred and fifty years.”
“He hasn’t needed to, but that doesn’t mean he won’t.” He runs a hand through his hair. “God, I wish things were different for you. Do you have any idea how many Scions and Squires wish they could just walk away?”
“Like you did?”
Nick’s jaw tightens; then he visibly forces himself to relax. I realize I’ve been watching him do a version of the same progression since we’ve met: anger, restraint, resignation.
“No one, not even the Regents, thought I’d be Called. My renouncement was symbolic. Political. A child’s protest. And it will take symbolic and political steps to restore the kingdom’s, and the Table’s, faith in me. To own the title in full.”
Before last night, the odds had been in Nick’s favor. Two hundred years since anyone in his Line had needed to step up to the plate, or had the power to. I see it now. The desperation in his face is for me, but it’s for himself, too. The road ahead is long, and the bridges burned.
“What happens to you if… if…”