Page 363 - Fourth Wing

“Oranges,” I whisper to Ridoc as my body finally gives out. “He’s

allergic to oranges.” I fall into nothingness.
When I wake, I’m not on the mat, and I can tell by the windows of the

Healer Quadrant infirmary that night has fallen. I’ve been out for hours.

And that’s not Ridoc lounged in the chair next to my bed, glaring at me
like he’d like to kill me himself.

It’s Xaden. His hair is tousled, like he’s been tugging at it, and he’s

flipping a dagger end over end, catching it by the tip without so much as
looking at it before sheathing it at his side. “Oranges?”