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Bastard-born six months after the King, their father, married Queen Apolline, her mother, and five months before Amira was born, Ralston grew up in the castle with her. He’ll never hold a title or power but he is as much her brother as Amira’s younger siblings are. Ralston has always been her best friend and most beloved confidante, despite her mother’s disapproval. Being born within the same year, they’ve spent the majority of their lives in each other’s pockets and she hates that his accident happened while her mother had her entertaining some of their guests staying in the castle for her betrothal tournament.
Ralston has been unconscious for three days before the nurse comes to get Amira and tell her he’s awake. She’d spent the better part of those three days at his side, keeping an eye on his bruising, only stepping away to bathe and sleep which has frustrated her mother to no end. All things considered, he’s healing well. They’ve wrapped and immobilized Ralston’s arm due to his fractured collarbone and bruised ribs. As long as he doesn’t try to move it unnecessarily, they should mend over the next few weeks.
“Gods damn it, I don’t need your help.”
Amira can hear him down the corridor as she approaches his quarters, cursing under her breath. Of course, the moment she wasn’t with him, Ralston would wake up. He’s ducking under the arms of his nurses, or at least attempting to, when she crosses the threshold and notices her first.
“Amira-”
“My lady.” The nurses hurry to curtsey, giving Ralston the opportunity to slide his legs over the edge of his bed with a grimace. They put up a small amount of fight when Amira dismisses them but, in the end, she is the crown heir and they do as they’re bid, leaving Ralston sitting, avoiding her gaze.
“Rals-” She hurries around his bed, placing a gentle hand on his cheek and tilting his head up to look at her. Three days worth of beard growth scrapes at her palm as he presses back against her hand. His bruising doesn’t look any worse than when she was in this morning but sitting up, in the sunlight streaming through the window, Amira can’t stop the emotion the bubbles in her chest. “My Gods, Ralston, I was so worried. They didn’t know if– well, if you’d wake up because you had hit your head and there was so much blood.”
She cards her other hand through the hair on the side of his head, careful of the blood that remains there.
“Amira,” Ralston lifts his uninjured arm to grasp her wrist, holding her in place as he turns his hand to press a soft kiss against her palm. “My heart, you’ve told me time and time again that my head is too hard. A knock down would never be the end of me, even if it was a pompous prince that hit me with his horse.”
“Hit you– hit you with his horse?” Amira breathes, aghast, and sinks to her knees, skirts pooling around her at his feet. Ralston’s grip on her wrist rotates to grasp her hand and her other digs into the muscle above his knee. “Who hit you with his horse?”
Ralston’s body shifts like he’s trying to shrug and his face twists into a grimace. He stands, uses his grip on her hand to pull her to her feet and tucks her against his side.
“Don’t know.” He states, falsely bright and cheeky as he steers them both toward the bath his nurses had drawn. Ralston sinks into it with a sigh, ignoring how it soaks into his under clothes. “One of the little lordlings vying for your hand. They all look the same to me.”
Amira frowns at him and settles on the rim of the tub, cupping water to pour over his head, ignoring his gasp of shock and doing it again. She doesn’t respond, mind churning over what he’s told her. Only the splash of his bath water as Amira scrubs three day old dried blood from his hair and Ralston’s labored breathing break the silence. His hair is thick and soft under her hands when she’s finished and Amira presses her lips against his temple.
“I’m canceling the tournament.”
He turns to look at her, ignoring how it pulls at his ribs.
“The Queen won’t let you, Amira. She wants you wed.”
She scoffs, standing to grab a towel to wrap him in, gesturing for him to stand from the bath.
“I don’t need her permission. Father will agree. Besides,” Amira threads her fingers into his hair, tugging him down the inches that separate their height and locks her gaze on his. Her blazing blue eyes meet Ralston’s, identical in shade. “You’re mine and I will not allow any to hurt you. Especially not some lordling who thinks himself your better or mine.”