Chapter 228: Sleep, Little Witch
Thorne said nothing in response.
His dark eyes didn’t even flick toward her. They remained fixed on Morgana, taking in the fevered state of her body, the sweat covering her skin.
He moved past Rowan as if she didn’t exist.
His presence filled the room, and Rowan instinctively stepped back, understanding that she was witnessing something significant, something that went beyond the simple relationship of king and ward.
Rowan watched as Thorne reached the bed, his dark eyes studying Morgana’s flushed face, her rapid breathing, the evidence of the fever written across every inch of her.
He bent slightly, his hand reaching out, and for a moment his fingers hovered just above her forehead...not quite touching, as if he was absorbing the heat of her fever through the air itself.
Then he bent down, his arms sliding beneath her body and he lifted her.
Morgana made a small sound...not quite a protest, not quite acknowledgment. Her head tilted toward him, and even in her fevered state, her body recognized him. Her hand came up instinctively and gripped his shirt, holding onto him.
Rowan wanted to say something....wanted to warn him, to explain the fever, to give him the cloth so he could continue her work, but she stopped herself.
Because this was the king.
And Morgana, in her fever-ravaged state, had just claimed him as her anchor.
Rowan stepped back, pressing herself against the wall, and watched as Thorne turned and carried Morgana toward the door. Her friend’s dark head rested against his chest, her body curled into him with complete trust, and in that moment, Rowan understood something fundamental about the world she was navigating.
Morgana didn’t belong to herself anymore. Not really.
She belonged to the kings.
***
Servants scattered as Thorne moved through the corridors of the palace.
One glimpse of the Middle King carrying Morgana, his dark eyes blazing with something that might have been concern or might have been fury...either way, no one dared to question, no one dared to do anything but step aside and pretend not to notice.
By the time Thorne reached his chambers, word was already spreading through the palace that something significant was happening, something that involved the kings and their mysterious ward.
Thorne’s chambers were nothing like Morgana’s functional, relatively modest rooms.
These were the chambers of a king who had centuries of accumulated power and wealth. The walls were dark stone, decorated with tapestries that depicted scenes of shadow and starlight, of dragons in their ancient forms, of battles fought under moonless skies. The furniture was sparse but exquisite, pieces that were clearly antique.
But the bed was what dominated the space.
It was enormous...easily twice the size of Morgana’s, with black silk sheets and pillows that looked like they’d been spun from clouds. The headboard was carved from what looked like obsidian, and it seemed to absorb the light in the room, creating shadows that danced across the walls.
This was a bed fit for a king. And now, Morgana would sleep in it.
***
Thorne moved to the bed, he lowered her onto the dark silk sheets, and for a moment, he simply held her there, suspended just above the surface, studying her fevered face.
Her dark hair spread across the black pillows like spilled ink, and her skin seemed almost luminescent against the darkness of the fabric. She was burning up, the fever creating a faint shimmer of heat around her body, and when Thorne lowered her fully onto the bed, he made sure to arrange her carefully, to position her so that she was comfortable even in her unconsciousness.
His hand came up, and his long fingers gently smoothed her dark hair away from her forehead.
Morgana murmured softly and turned toward him even in her sleep, her body instinctively seeking his warmth. She pressed her head against his chest, burrowing into him, and a sound escaped her....something between a sigh and a whimper.
Thorne’s breath caught.
A smile curved his lips....genuine, unguarded, carrying all the satisfaction of a predator who had finally claimed his prize. He adjusted her position, making sure she was comfortable, and then he bent to press a kiss to her forehead.
"Sleep, little witch," he murmured, the words barely audible. "Sleep and heal. You’re safe now. You’re mine now."
Then he stood and walked toward the bathroom connected to his chambers.
The water was already drawn, the servants had prepared it anticipating his needs, and Thorne quickly retrieved a ceramic bowl and several pieces of soft cloth. He dunked the cloths into the cool water and wrung them out.
When he returned to the bed, Morgana was exactly where he’d left her, her fevered body creating a heat that seemed to warm the very air around her. Thorne took one of the damp cloths and gently wiped her forehead, her cheeks, the delicate line of her jaw. He worked with meticulous care, trying to ease the fever from the outside, knowing it was only a temporary measure but determined to provide whatever relief he could.
After several minutes, when he felt confident that he’d done everything he could with the cloths, he set them aside and carefully got into bed beside her.
The moment his body settled into the mattress, Morgana responded.
She practically crawled into his arms, her fevered body seeking the coolness of his body, She curled against his chest, her cheek resting directly over his heart, and her breathing seemed to ease slightly.
Thorne wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer, making sure that every inch of her fever-hot body was in contact with his. He took a deep breath and released it slowly, feeling the tension begin to drain from his shoulders.
Finally.
After hours of waiting, after days of enforced patience while Kaelen had his time, after the constant ache of wanting her and being denied access to her...finally, she was in his arms.
His hand came up, and his fingers began to thread through her dark hair, moving gently, soothingly, trying to ease her toward better rest. He didn’t try to sleep himself. Instead, he simply held her, feeling the rapid beat of her heart against his chest, feeling the fever-heat of her skin, feeling the simple, profound rightness of having her finally where she belonged.
With him.
In his bed.
In his arms.