Descendants of the Kings (Book 2)

Mister Wolf and the little warrior

"This is ridiculous."

Beneath at least five heavy duvets and propped up on a mountain of pillows fluffy enough to swallow her, Minna did look rather ridiculous. It didn't help that with her stuffy nose, her voice came out nasally, making her slur her speech.

Callan thought she looked adorably rumpled, but he wisely kept his thoughts to himself. She might have been sick, but she was still a force to be reckoned with.

"I can't just lay here all day," she almost whined. "I'm perfectly fine to be able to walk around. See?"

Callan arched a brow. She could hardly speak, her throat still raw from coughing non-stop for the past couple of days. Furthermore, she'd been up all night with a fever, which had barely gone down at dawn.

"I recall you saying that a few days ago, when you insisted on going out in the snow," Callan answered wryly, ignoring her protests in favour of fluffing her pillows to help her sit against them.

"I was fine," she muttered sourly.

She most certainly wasn't. A few hours in the snow had been enough for her to catch a cold that had her days in bed with a raging fever and a cough loud enough to wake the dead. Callan still blamed himself for caving into her and Finny's demands for a snow day.

He was supposed to be the reasonable one, for Morwen's sake. And yet, he'd let himself be pulled along into this ridiculous outing.

Begrudgingly, Callan would admit that it had been... fun.

He'd built a strange snow figure with Minna, which she'd decorated with a carrot nose and a perfectly good scarf, for some reason. He'd built some sort of snow fort, which he'd rather enjoyed, and even participated in a snow fight. Well, he'd harumphed sourly as Finnian and Minna hit each other with snow balls, rolling his eyes when Minna thought she could sneak up on him and hit him.

If Callan had pretended to be surprised by her attack, well, that was just his business, no matter how much Finnian teased him for it.

They'd ended the day wrapped in a blanket in front of the fire, drinking hot chocolate, with Minna cuddled against him. It had been a good day. One of the best ones, in fact. That was, until a few hours later, at midnight, he'd been awoken by Minna's hacking coughs. And just like that, she was sick.

Minna harumphed as she propped herself against the mountain of pillows. Sitting by her side, Callan placed the tray of food on her lap, where he proceeded to cut the chicken into small bites.

"You don't have to do that," she whined. "I've got a cold, not two broken arms."

"Drink your soup," Callan answered, not looking up from his task. When she glared at him, he fixed her with a pointed look until she caved and diligently spooned soup into her mouth.

"You're supposed to be a King," she grumbled, neatly stuffing bread into her mouth. "You're not supposed to be playing nurse-maid. Haven't you got things to do?"

"I assure you my duties are handled. I can afford to take time to bring you food and medicine."

"I could go down to eat at the hall," she muttered, taking the chicken Callan had cut for her. Despite her grumbling, she ate with enthusiasm. It was a good sign; for the past few days, she'd barely been able to keep tea and broth down.

Callan didn't even deign to answer her suggestion. Just last night, he'd had to carry her to the bathing chamber as she was too weak to walk. She might have had more colour to her cheeks and more liveliness, but she was a far cry from healthy.

He looked up and caught her red eyes and pale complexion, her freckles stark against her skin. The lilac lining her eyes spoke of her exhaustion and the fitful days she'd had. Callan's knuckles clenched.