Blood Oath (The Darkest Drae Book 1)(65)

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said.

“Can you read minds?” I asked, rolling my eyes.

He snorted. His most common response to my questions. Lovely.

“No, Ryn. Your expression is a clear window to your emotions. I don’t think I’d need to read your mind.”

Drak. I flinched at his words. I’d have to work on a blank expression, like the one he did so well. And the thought that he could actually read minds was a little terrifying. Stupid Drae powers. He ignored my response and continued talking.

“I would never use my Drae powers to be intimate with someone. Never. And there’s no way the king can twist the oath to that end again.”

Really? “Why not?”

“Because he can’t,” he growled.

Obviously, I’d touched a nerve. But, knowing the king couldn’t make him mate was a relief, for him and for me. I was glad the king didn’t have total power over him. Something else was bothering me though after Tyr’s disappearing act in the dungeon. I gathered my courage and looked Lord Irrik in the eye. “Is Tyr your son?”

Waves of emotions crossed his face—frustration, sadness, anger—before he slipped his features into the flat expression he wore most. “No. He is not.”

I’d learned more this evening than all the weeks of working outside with him.

He ran his hand over the soft comforter on the bed, and his mask slipped. He closed his eyes and took slow deep breaths. His pain and weariness hung in a cloud around him, drifting all the way to the other side of the room, to me. Maybe I wasn’t the cause of his current heartache. Maybe his anguish wasn’t my fault. But I was certainly adding to it. I’d seen enough over the weeks to know that while Irrik was bound to the king, the Drae was not aligned with the brutality of Verald’s monarch.

“I meant what I said. If I can heal you, if there is a way for me to help you, I will.” I scratched my wrist, the itching from before returning with pruritic fire.

Irrik shook his head. “You don’t know what you’re offering.”

His gaze dropped to my hands.

I stopped scratching and looked down at my wrist. My fair skin looked normal, but I ran my finger over the rough patch. “Do you know what’s causing this? Did I get some funky disease down in the dungeon? If I did, I would’ve thought my Phaetyn powers would heal it.” He said nothing, and I fixed him with a pointed look. “Do you know how to make it better?”

“I’m not certain what it means, but I can assure you it’s not a disease. You might find that the . . . nectar helps.” He sighed, a tired and melancholy sound. “But it might make it worse, too. I don’t have a better answer for you.”

“Why do you say it like that? If it’s not nectar, what’s it called?” It wasn’t like I was all privy to the Drae’s language.

Lord Irrik chuckled. “You can call it whatever you want, Ryn.”

Okay. I poured another mug of nectar and sipped at it. The sweetness brought a diffusion of tranquility with it. I dipped my finger in the clear liquid and rubbed it on the rough patch of skin on my wrist. The itching melted away. “Hey,” I said, smiling with the relief of my discomfort. “You were right.”

He stood. “If you’re done eating, we should get some sleep. Tomorrow will be another long day.”

“Why don’t you take the bed?” I asked, lying down on the long couch. “You look like you need it more than I do.”

He quirked a brow. “Do you mind if I have some supper?”

I blushed, stood, and hefted the tray with both hands. “Sorry,” I mumbled. “Here you go.”

I carried the tray halfway across the room where he met me. Our hands brushed as we transferred possession of the heavy platter. He quickly adjusted it so he held it underneath by one hand. “You didn’t eat very much. Are you sure you don’t want anything else on the tray?” With the other hand, he grabbed the flagon of nectar and held it out to me. “You might want this close by, in case your skin disease comes back.”

“Hey, you said it wasn’t a disease,” I shot back. I accepted the flagon, grabbed a roll to nibble on, and then went back to the couch, feeling his gaze on me.

When he was done eating, Irrik extinguished the lights and opened the panels to the night. He drew near, and I watched him in the dark, my heart pounding. He pulled a blanket out of a drawer of the wardrobe and dropped it on my feet.

Seconds later, the bed groaned and sank under his weight. I’d been waiting for this. The obscurity of night bolstered my courage, and I asked my last question in a whisper. “How can I use my Phaetyn powers to heal a person?”

I knew from my mother’s tales that the Phaetyns of old could do this—though they were probably much stronger than I was. She’d never told me how, and I wondered if she knew.

He blew out a slow breath before he answered, “How do you heal the land, Ryn?”

I spit, bled, and sweat on it. Was he saying I had to put that on a person? Sick. “Hey, but if a Phaetyn is supposed to heal stuff, why is their blood lethal to Drae?”

“Phaetyn are life, and Drae are death. We are able to kill each other. It ensures balance in the realm.”

I thought about it. “But my blood doesn’t work on you?”