Returning to consciousness was much like resurfacing out of deep water in an indoor pool. Awareness arrived in broken fragments of light, memory, pain and a groggy sensation of passed time like the fractured reflections shining off of an undulating surface onto the walls. My first conscious thought was of recognizing the white blankness before my blurred vision as a ceiling overhead. I ached from extended pain, but the flat and firm surface I lay upon felt pleasant to my weary body.
I furrowed my brows, trying to look down and moved my uninjured arm out from under the covers. I had been dressed in a clean and simple long-sleeved nightgown. I struggled to sit up and the pain resurfaced, although it wasn’t the white hot agony of before. A man’s face swirled into view and he used two fingers at my sternum to push me back down against my admittedly weak struggle.
“Stop fighting. You’re weak and you’ve lost blood. If you promise not to get up, I’ll get you another pillow so you can sit with some support.” His voice was a smooth baritone; stern but with a sense of amusement warming the remonstration pleasantly.
I blinked, my eyes feeling almost as blurred and sticky as my mouth. Yuck. It felt like I had four day old soda semi-solidified and coating the crevices in my mouth, not to mention my tongue. I lifted my right hand to rub the goop out of my eyes and grunted experimentally. My voice sounded like my mouth felt, but it didn’t pain me to verbalize. As I brought my gaze to bear on the man wondering whether he was good Samaritan or kidnapper, I demanded; “Who are you? How did I get here and where is here?” I was pleased to note I sounded far less groggy and weak than I felt.
That momentary hint of warmth disappeared in irritated disgruntlement as I inspected the man standing over me. He was extraordinarily good-looking. Normally this might have brought me some pleasure, but something in it seemed unfair and wrong. Thick dark hair with a natural wave swept over his forehead just barely clearing the tapered eyebrow that arched sardonically at my inspection. His eyes were faceted grey that sparkled with intelligence and arrogance punctuating his straight, well-formed nose. Lips neither thin nor excessively plump curved in a smirk. High cheekbones, golden tan, broad shoulders, trim waist; he was the whole package. In other circumstances, I might have drooled. In spite of the fluttering of attraction that hit my gut, I felt angry. He was a setup. He had to be. I detest manipulation and his presence virtually reeked of someone trying to predict my natural inclinations.
And that arrogant amusement radiated off of him as he watched my inner turmoil. “I’m Tristam. You’re in a safe place. I brought you here. It wouldn’t do to leave you poisoned and bleeding to death after I stumbled across you.”
In spite of his warning, I struggled to sit up, waves of pain, dizziness and a profound lack of fey-awareness washing over me. He did nothing to halt my movement this time. He simply watched with that confident, knowing smirk. I scowled my way through my discombobulation. “Safe for you or safe for me? And what the hell do you mean you stumbled across me?”
His right eyebrow ticked upwards and his smile widened. “Well, that depends. You’re at a friend’s place to recover. One of my friends, before you ask. And by stumbled, I mean it very literally. You’ll forgive me the bruising of your leg, I trust?”
I responded with a surly grunt, taking a moment to glance around the room. It was a lavish bedroom; crisp, clean and elegant. The brocade curtains and sheer underdrapes, the plush ivory carpet, the white-mantled fireplace across the room all spoke volumes about wealth that was taken for granted. As opposed to the opulence of the newly wealthy, this was a richness of taste where function was as important as form. There wasn’t an excess of art or statuary, but the painting on the wall was an oil landscape of high quality with an exquisitely complementary frame. The wallpaper was ivory, white and gold and I could tell that it would have a thick raised texture if I were to touch it. My bed was carven mahogany with bright white and gold sheets. It all felt familiar, but between the ache in my shoulder and the fuzzy, drugged state of my headI just couldn’t concentrate.
I turned back to glare accusingly at Tristam. If his upraised hands were any indicator, the ensuing dizziness didn’t temper my projected ire. “What did you dose me with? How long have I been out?” I prodded at the dressing on my shoulder, ignoring the pain with a masochistic intention of figuring out how bad it was and how much had healed.
“Nothing,” the disgustingly tempting Adonis said as he took a step back. “The arrowhead was iron. You’ve been unconscious for a few days, but the worst that was done was an empathy leeching; no drugs. Just the poison. You were lucky I found you when I did.”
I narrowed my eyes and hummed. Lucky. What were the chances of some random stranger rescuing me from an assassin’s arrow? And what were the chances of him being that same assassin? I didn’t care if he knew I was suspicious, I had every right to be.
Tristam, apparently disagreed. He shook his head with disgust and stormed towards the door, his voice angry and bitter: “Nothing like gratitude. I save your ass, nurse you back to health and this is how you treat me? I know you’re disoriented, but next time someone saves you, a “thank you” might be in order.” His outburst was so unexpected that I did nothing more than stare. “Stay in bed,” he commanded before swinging the door open and slamming it closed behind him.
Bemused by his tempestuous irritation, I stared at the door for another long moment after it closed. And then it registered: I had seen that doorknob before. The brass handle with filigreed vines and the small crystal faceted and inset into the center was of distinctive design. I had only ever seen it in one other place.
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