Chapter 156
Lirael
"Let me see your foot," he said suddenly, and there was no request in his tone—just that Alpha command that expected immediate compliance.
"I'm fine," I said, taking a deliberate bite of cake. "Just enjoying these. Thank you again for—"
But he was already moving, dropping to one knee beside my chair with fluid grace. His hands found my right ankle before I could pull away, fingers gentle but inexorable as they lifted my foot to rest on his thigh. I watched, caught between irritation and something dangerously close to tenderness, as he carefully unlaced my heeled combat boot and eased it off.
The slight wince I couldn't quite suppress made his jaw tighten. When he rolled down my sock, the swelling around my ankle was obvious—not terrible, just a faint puffiness and reddish discoloration that spoke of too many hours on my feet.
"Lira." His voice had gone dangerously quiet. "How long has it been like this?"
"It's nothing," I said, trying to pull my foot back. His grip tightened fractionally—not enough to hurt, but enough to make his point. "Sebastian, I've had broken bones that healed wrong. This is just—"
"Last night." He looked up at me, and the guilt in his amber eyes made my chest constrict. "When we were together. Did I hurt you? Did I make this worse and you didn't say anything because—" He broke off, thumb brushing over the swollen skin with devastating gentleness. "Fuck, Lira. Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because it wasn't you," I said, finally managing to tug my foot free. "I told you—it's from walking. Too many stairs, too much standing. The boots don't help, but they're practical for what I do, so—"
"What you do." He sat back on his heels, and I recognized the particular set of his shoulders that meant he was gearing up for an argument. "You mean running around playing general for a resistance movement? Coordinating raids that put you in the line of fire? Risking your neck for people who should be protecting you instead of the other way around?"
"Those people are my responsibility," I said, feeling my own temper spark. "They're my kin, Sebastian. My people. Who else is going to fight for them if I don't?"
"Anyone," he shot back, standing and beginning to pace. "Literally anyone else could coordinate these operations. You have capable people, Lira. Selene, Damian, that entire organization you've built. Why does it have to be you putting yourself in danger?"
"Because they're doing it for me!" The words came out sharper than I'd intended. "Nocturne exists because I created it. Those people follow me because I understand what they've survived. I can't just... delegate that. I can't ask them to risk everything while I sit safely behind a desk."
Sebastian stopped pacing to brace his hands on the table, looming over me. "You think I don't understand that?" he said quietly. "You think I don't know what it means to carry responsibility for people who depend on you? But Lira, you're not invincible. You're one person, and if something happens to you—"
"Then Nocturne continues without me," I finished. "I've made sure of that. There are contingency plans, successors in place. The work doesn't stop just because I'm gone."
"That's not—" He made a frustrated sound, running both hands through his hair. "That's not what I meant. I don't give a fuck about the organization, Lira. I care about you. About the fact that you're limping around on a swollen ankle because you won't take care of yourself. About the fact that you throw yourself into danger like your life doesn't matter—"
"I'm not expendable," I interrupted. "I'm necessary. There's a difference."
"Not to me there isn't." He moved back to crouch in front of me, catching my hands in his. "To me, you're the only thing that matters. And watching you hurt yourself, watching you take risks that could get you killed..." His grip tightened. "It's killing me, Lira."
I stared at our joined hands. "What do you want me to do? Stop fighting? Abandon my people?"
"I want you to let me help," he said, and there was something raw in his voice. "I want you to trust that you don't have to do everything alone anymore. That when danger comes, you can rely on someone other than yourself."
"I can rely on you," I said, because it was true and he needed to hear it.
"Can you?" The question was gentle, but it cut deep. "Because from where I'm sitting, you still act like you're alone. Like you can't count on anyone to catch you when you fall."
Because I can't, I wanted to say. Because everyone I've ever relied on has either betrayed me or died. But the words stuck in my throat, because Sebastian had already proven himself, hadn't he? Had already chosen me over his father, his position, everything he'd built.
"It's hard," I admitted. "Trusting. Depending on people. I've been alone for so long that I don't know how to be anything else."
His expression softened, and he brought one of my hands to his lips. "Then learn," he said simply. "Let me teach you. Starting with this—" He reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a small tin that I recognized immediately from the Old Elvish script on the label. "—moon-blessed healing ointment. Had Marcus source it this morning along with the cakes."
I watched as he unscrewed the lid and scooped out a generous amount of the pale, luminescent salve. The scent hit me immediately—silverleaf and moonflower and something that made my chest ache with homesickness.
"This stuff costs a fortune," I said weakly as he began massaging it into my ankle. "You can't just—"
"I can and I did," he interrupted. "And before you argue about the expense, remember that I'm obscenely wealthy and have absolutely no qualms about spending whatever it takes to keep you comfortable." His thumb found a particularly sore spot and worked it with gentle insistence. "Besides, what's the point of having resources if I can't use them to take care of you?"
He finished with the salve and carefully rolled my sock back up, then reached into another pocket and pulled out a sleek black box. "And since we're on the subject of taking care of you," he said, opening it to reveal a pair of soft leather boots, "these are for you."
I stared at the boots—practical, comfortable, with reinforced soles and cushioned insoles and absolutely no heel. "Sebastian—"
"You're wearing these from now on when you're working," he said. "The heeled ones are fine for looking intimidating at meetings, but not for running around playing guerrilla commander. I want you comfortable. I want you able to move without pain."
"I need to be able to fight," I protested, even as I was already reaching for the new boots. "Flat soles are harder to—"
"Then I'll commission a version with hidden blades in the toes and steel reinforcement," he cut in smoothly. "But you're not limping around in pain just to maintain some image, Lira. I won't—" He caught himself. "I'm asking. Please. Wear the comfortable boots."
And what could I say to that? How could I refuse when he was looking at me like I was precious, irreplaceable?
"Fine," I said, slipping my feet into the new boots and nearly moaning at how perfectly they fit. "But only because they're actually more practical."
"Of course," he agreed, satisfaction palpable. "Purely practical reasons."
"Exactly," I said primly, then ruined it by adding, "Thank you. Really. They're perfect."
His smile could have lit up the room. "Good. Now tell me about these extraction operations you're planning. I want to know exactly what you're walking into."
"Sebastian, you don't need to—"
"I absolutely do," he interrupted. "Because if you won't let me talk you out of the dangerous parts, at least let me make sure you have the best possible resources and backup."
I wanted to argue, to maintain my independence. But he was looking at me with such naked concern, such obvious need to be useful... and I found myself relenting.
"Fine," I said, pulling up the tactical files on my tablet. "But you're not allowed to veto anything just because you think it's too dangerous."
"I'll try to restrain myself," he said dryly.