I can speak another language.
SEVENTEEN
TWIGGY
Iwakeuptothe sound of hooves.
For a minute I don’t know where I am. The ceiling is too high, the light too soft, the sheets too nice. My body does that adrenaline jolt thing, ready to fling me out of bed, and then my brain catches up.
Emery’s estate. Cotton’s office-slash-guest room. Bran down the hall, stationed in the den like a very large, very stubborn watchdog. Henry somewhere out there thinking he’s the wolf.
The clock on the dresser says 6:17.
Outside, something snorts, and hooves begin a steadyclop clopin the frozen dirt. One of the horses, in the field next to the house. That’s what woke me.
I flop back against the pillow and stare at the ceiling.
I don’t remember falling asleep. Last night is a blur of firelight, cheesy movie dialogue, Bran’s hand warm over mine, the wordanytimein his voice like it cost him something to admit.
I should be more freaked out by that than I am.
“Okay,” I tell the ceiling. “We’re not gonna think about that. We’re thinking about…coffee.”
The promise of caffeine gets me upright.
I shove my hair into a messy knot, pull on the hoodie from yesterday, and pad out into the hallway in my socks. The house is quiet in the way big houses are—little sounds wrapped in a lot of space. Pipes ticking. Someone moving in another wing.
The den door is open.
A glance inside shows Bran is exactly where he said he’d be.
He’s in the armchair nearest the patio doors, one boot on the floor, the other braced on the ottoman like he sat down intending to watch something on television and fell asleep halfway through the decision.
A blanket is partially draped over his legs, and his head is tipped back against the high back of the chair. The normally firm line of his mouth is relaxed for once, the scruff on his jaw darker in the early morning light. His big hands splay loose on the armrests, leaving the broad expanse of his chest open.
I bite my lip. What would he do if I just…crawled into his lap and curled up against him? Laid my head on that chest and closed my eyes…went back to sleep?
The urge to do so is unbearable.
He doesn’t look younger asleep, the way some people do. If anything, he looks more tired. The lines at the corners of his eyes are deeper, the crease between his brows still faintly there even in rest.
I stand in the doorway and watch him for longer than is strictly polite.
It hits me all at once, in the quiet—I could stand here and watch him for hours without growing tired.
“I am definitely getting attached to the guard dog,” I whisper.
His eyes open.
I jump.
“Motherfuck,” I say automatically. “You scared me.”
He doesn’t move right away. Just blinks at me, completely awake way too fast for someone who was definitely asleep thirty seconds ago.
“G'damn, you have a potty mouth,” he says, voice roughened.
“Did you get any sleep at all, crunched up in that chair like that?” I ask, ignoring his statement.
