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“Take me to bed.”
“Uhh-”
“-To rest ,” Meve spoke around her fresh stitches. “I…” she gestured at the soldiers milling about the infirmary, “can’t let them see me like this.”
“It’s not so bad,” Gascon lied, gripping her waist to keep her upright, “you’re still standing.”
“If you say so,” Meve mumbled blearily, smearing blood over her cheek in an attempt to wipe her mouth.
He half-carried the queen to her tent and helped her undress with shaking hands. Meve fell asleep slumped against him. Gascon lowered them both to the bed, praying his pounding heartbeat would not wake her.