Defend the Dawn (Defy the Night #2)(92)

I uncurl his fingers to find two of them already red and blistered, with a neat tear in the skin across his palm. The injury isn’t terrible, but I’m sure it hurts.

“Come sit,” I say. “Let me wrap it for the night.”

He studies me, his eyes searching mine, but then he nods.

I pull a roll of muslin from my pack, along with some other herbs, and we drop into the seats. I open the jar of salve and dab some onto the worst of the wounds. His hand rests in mine, warm and steady, and he’s so quiet that I can hear each inhale.

When I glance up, his eyes are right there, watching me.

“I can’t believe you did this,” I say quietly.

“You think I should’ve just let go? You’re not the only one, I’m sure.”

“No. I meant the climbing. The competition.”

“I wanted an answer.” He pauses. “You climbed the mast, too.”

“Well, I wasn’t racing. It was still terrifying.” My heart jumps at the memory of the spinning sky, the rough water below. “Why was he acting like you cheated?”

“When I slipped,” he says, “the captain stopped to tell me how to guide my feet back onto the ropes. In doing so, he lost his chance to take the lead.”

I frown and shake my head. “I don’t understand why he would help you if he’s worried that you and Harristan are working against him. Do you think there’s any chance that he’s being earnest? That maybe he really is worried you’re going to take advantage of him?”

“No. I think I’m the king’s brother, and it wouldn’t go well for him if I fell to my death.”

“Hmm.” I pat a final bit of salve into the injury, then begin to wrap his hand with muslin. “Maybe he sees you as a man trying to keep his brother on the throne through any means possible, while he’s just trying to help everyone.”

“I’ve told you before that I’d walk out of the palace if I could. Harristan probably would, too. And then what? We leave governing to Allisander? Or Baron Pepperleaf? Do you really think that would be better?”

No, I don’t.

Just when I tie off a knot, he closes his fingers around mine, and I look up.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

I hold his gaze, and I think of all the things he could be apologizing for, and I swallow.

Then he continues, “I’m sorry I can’t be altruistic.”

That wasn’t even on my list. I frown. “Don’t be silly.”

His thumb brushes my wrist. “I know he caught your eye at dinner. I know he seems to be everything you want.”

My heart thumps hard in my chest. “He’s not everything I—”

“Yes,” Corrick says. “He is. I know he is.”

“How?” I whisper. “How do you know that?”

“Because he’s the kind of man Weston Lark would be, if he were real.”

“He’s not—” My chest is tight, and I have to take a breath. “He’s not Weston Lark.”

“I’m not either, Tessa.” He pauses, considering. “The other day, Rian compared my actions as King’s Justice to locking someone in a room without food or water, then punishing them for trying to escape. I hate him, but I hate that he keeps making me think that he’s right, that Harristan and I have solved nothing. That we’ve only created more problems.”

I stare at him. “Corrick. You haven’t locked anyone in a room.”

“Tessa.” He gives me a look.

“No! I mean—you have. But that’s not his analogy. You didn’t cause the illness. You didn’t force people into this situation. The fever sickness isn’t your fault.”

He frowns and looks away.

“Do you understand that?” I say. “There are a lot of things that you could have done differently—but this part is not your fault. It’s not.” I swallow. “If the fevers locked people in a room to starve, you were the guard sneaking them food and water.”

“So were you.” He finally lets go of my hand, but it’s only to reach up and touch a finger to my cheek, tracing the line of my jaw. I shiver.

He frowns and draws back. “Forgive me.”

“No! You don’t—I don’t—it’s—you’re—”

A line forms between his brows as I stumble over my words, and I blow a breath out through my teeth. Corrick is terrible and wonderful and aggravating and inspiring, and somehow he manages all of it, all at once. He allows everyone to think the worst of him, and all the while, he sacrifices everything he wants for the betterment of others. I don’t know if I want to punch him in the face or wrap my arms around him.

I make a frustrated sound and throw my arms around his neck. “I hate you so much.”

He catches me, but lightly, his hands soft against my waist. “I’ve always told you that would work out for the best.”

And then I realize that his hands haven’t moved, that I might be attached to his neck like he’s a life raft keeping me above water, but he’s holding me like perhaps I’ve mistaken him for someone else.

I draw back a bit so I can see his eyes. I don’t hate him at all. Not really. But I think of our argument at sunrise yesterday. Every word he spoke was true, but he was so biting, so cruel.