I’m simply annoyed and have no wish to suffer Wren’s irritating presence.
“Thank God for your help in the kitchen,” Gavin calls out as I walk away from the table. It’s difficult to imagine the dark-haired knight having worn John’s colors, given how he literally spits every time he hears the king’s name. I can’t blame him. When he refused to commit atrocities for John, the king ordered him beaten to the point that he now walks with a limp. “I speak for all of us when I admit we were growing tired of Bryce’s bland stews.”
Bryce doesn’t pause from shoveling his meal into his maw. “To the devil with you.”
Quinn’s fork clatters against his metal plate. Everyone halts to stare at the doomed man. It’s easy to forget the devil is not an abstract entity for Quinn. After studying Bryce for what seems like endless tense moments, he sighs. “Sorry, but no. We don’t want him there.” He picks up his fork, spears a carrot, and holds it to his mouth. “Although his stew should guarantee him a spot.”
The tension dissipates as everyone piles on the harmless ribbing of Bryce’s culinary skills. But it leaves me with the realization that Quinnwillbe reborn as a demon as part of his bargain when he surrendered his soul.
This day has been long, and this meal is suddenly endless. Emma calls out to me when I reach the first step and reminds me that she’s only a chamber away if I need anything. Her friendship reassures me, and when I walk toward the stairs, I do it with a light heart even as Wren’s rancor burns me as I march toward the safety of my chamber.
I trudge up the steep dimly lit steps leading to the keep’s upper level. And once I reach my room, I’m grateful for the fire in the hearth. Even in summer, castle walls hold a damp chill. It’s nice that someone thought to do this kindness for me.
I peel off the green tunic. It’s a bit loose, but I’m grateful for the trunk of clothing Dax graciously provided for me. I didn’t ask where the clothing came from when he brought it to me the day after we arrived. He simply set it at the foot of the bed and followed it with a kiss that left me breathless.
I drape the gold-trimmed gown over the chair near the arrow slit of a window, then kick off my sturdy, brown boots. After I strip away the delicate white chemise, I use the tepid water in a basin resting in the corner of the room to wash as best I can.
Tomorrow, I plan to have a proper bath in the copper tub—and if Wren grumbles about it again, too damn bad.
I tug on a new chemise and settle under the cool, crisp blanket. After a full day’s worth of activity, it feels wonderful to lay my body at rest. It takes no time at all for me to slip into sleep…
…until I’m pulled right back out by the door creaking open. The ancient hinges groan, whipping me awake. I jolt up, and in the faint firelight, I see the large outline of Wren unlacing his shirt.
Momentarily struck dumb, I gawk like a fool. I stupidly watch him peel off his shirt and gape at his sun-kissed skin. Marvel at the sheer breadth of his shoulders. And when he turns his back on me… My God. It’s a struggle to stifle a gasp at the crisscrossed lash scars that mar his flesh. Who would dare harm him? Even as the question forms, a prominent name follows in its wake.
John.
But why? Much of Wren’s life is a mystery, and as I snap out of my stupor, I wish… I wish for many things. That I could undo my choices to make him…unhate…me because I miss his friendship. Miss his laugh. His silly jests. How he worried I would tumble from the tower when I would sit on the ledge and dangle my leg over the side.
Mostly, I miss his love.
When he took that from me, he took my heart as well. Left an aching hollow in the center of my world.
“Why are you in my room?”
He tosses the shirt on the chair and turns to face me. “Your room?” Wren’s face may be cast in shadow, but I see the sneer that curls his upper lip just fine. “Fucking presumptuous of you.”
“Fine, it’s not my room.” I hike the blanket to my chin as if he hasn’t already seen me naked. “But you’re allowing me to use it. Please leave.”
He stalks toward the bed as he removes his sword. Then takes care to wrap the straps of the belt around the sheath. He leans the weapon against the wall where he can easily reach it before working the laces of his breeches.
I panic. “What are you doing?”
“How else do you expect me to remove them?” His sarcastic tone bounces off the stone walls.
I give him a firm shake of my head. “No, Wren.”
His hands go still, his expression cold. “No?”
“No.” I notch my chin. “You can’t sleep in this bed.”
My God, but must he look so smug? “You realize this is my goddamn room.” His hands get busy again until the last lace falls open. He shucks his boots. Shimmies those brown breeches over his hips, and I want to look away. Lord knows I do, but I don’t. I can’t. Or maybe I simply won’t. I sit there, the blanket still ridiculously hiked high, and I watch as he slowly—so slowly—slides his pants down his long, muscular legs. The light dusting of hair does nothing to take away from the sun-kissed perfection of his body.
A body I wondered what looked like naked for years.
Dreamed about.
I imagined touching when I was alone in the dark, my hands on my own body, pretending we were together.
