“If they see me, Morrgot, they’ll take me. There’s a—” I shift my eyes to Sewell. If he doesn’t know about the reward, then I’m certainly not going to test his allegiance to Morrgot by spouting an amount of money that would alter his life without needing to risk it for a crow. “I’m wanted,” I say simply.
Because they assume you’ve run away. You’ll tell them you came to Tarespagia to seek your great-grandmother’s counsel and weren’t aware of the upheaval your absence caused.
I lick my lips, tasting the salt the king will surely slip me to ascertain I’m speaking the truth. “What about the trench?”
What about the trench?
“It filled and dragged down a regiment.”
They don’t suspect you. Don’t take offence, Behach Éan, but releasing the barrage isn’t in the realm of your capacities.
I cross my arms and lift my chin, taking offence. “I’m strong.”
I swear Morrgot chuckles.Your grandfather himself tried to break the barrage and failed.
Oh.The knot of my arms loosens but my chin stays high. “Well. Good.” I stamp out the words.
Sewell lays out the dress on the bed. “Do you want help dressing?” His head snaps backward and his ever-present smile shrinks before winking out of existence. “Apologies. I only meant to help.”
I glower at the crow, who must’ve scolded him. Gods only know why since I’m not some piece of obsidian that’ll poison humans if they touch me. “Help would be greatly appreciated. Unless you plan on lacing me up with your talons and beak, Morrgot?”
Sewell bows his head and backs up. “I’ll get Furia saddled.”
After the door clicks shut, I scowl some more. “You obviously don’t wear gowns all too often, or you’d know they’re a pain to do up.” The fancier they are, the more eyelets and ribbons and teeny hooks made for teeny fingers they have. Then again, women who wear fancy gowns have a staff of sprites and halflings dedicated to dressing them and are never in a rush to get anywhere.
Sewell has no female companion. Unless you care to become his, then I suggest you attempt to dress yourself. If you prove incapable of lacing your own gown, I’ll assist you.
“Usually, it’s the undressing that leads to companionship, not the dressing,” I mutter under my breath. “Not that I expect a bird to know anything about people courtship.” I slide the sheet back onto the bed, pick up the dress, and drop it over my head. The silk lining feels like cool lotion against my clean skin. “He didn’t get me any underwear by any chance, did he?”
I’ll fetch your laundered ones.
Morrgot melts into a shadow that slips through the door frame. What a neat trick that is. I wonder if all Crows are capable of changing consistency, or if that’s another power possessed only by the king of their species.
When he reappears, having managed to open the door with his talons, my underwear is clutched in his bill. He drops it onto the bed as though it were rotted carrion, then presses his body into the door, shutting it with a resounding click.
I slip one foot through it, then the other. The fabric is warm and dry, and although the detergent has hardened it, I’m glad for its clean feel. Once in place, I start on the laces that hold the stiff bustier in place.
My shoulders ache from all the twisting and tugging, but I manage relatively well. Could it be snugger? Yes. Do I care? As long as it stays up, no.
Tighter. I can see your breasts.
I smooth my palms over the rich fabric and peer up at the crow. “Why are you even looking at my breasts?”
Morrgot flocks down from his perch and vanishes behind my shoulder. Seconds later, a chilly gust presses against my spine. The sensation is vaguely familiar. Is it the feel of his feathers or of his smoke?
I twist my head. Black wisps paint the velvet bodice and curl around the thick black lace.
A firm tug squeezes the air from my lungs and flattens my chest, jabbing my bruised nipples. Another tug costs me another breath. The crow works quietly, diligently, using a dexterity I would never have suspected him to possess, neither in bird form nor in cloud form.
Done.The cool smoke of his body slips over my shoulder blades, and I swear it feels like fingers dragging over my skin, gentle yet strong, delicate yet solid.
I shiver before growing very, very still, because the hands that kneaded my body in my dreams felt alarmingly similar. A blush devours my flesh, followed by heady confusion.
Didhegive me that massage? The question tiptoes onto my tongue but never plunges off its tip. It’s too absurd and completely preposterous.
I may have tightened your top, but not to the point of ridding you of breath.His smoke curls around my earlobe, drawing another shiver from my body.
“Wh-what?”
