Ash tried to get down, but Race growled and firmed his hold on her. He nudged the warped door with his elbow, and it groaned open. Floorboards creaked as he carried her over the threshold before letting her slide down his body.
Ash swept her tangled hair back and took in the quiet interior.
Fire crackled in a squat stone fireplace, warming the spacious communal room. Light played across a scarred oak table with chairs on one side, while on the other, worn navy armchairs flanked the hearth.
A stooped male shuffled from a side passage, his wisps of steel-gray hair caught in a thin tail. Faint gray-blue scales shimmered on the back of his weathered hands in the lamplight.
“Evening, sire,” he rasped.
“We’re expected,” Race said, pushing his hood back, revealing his loosely braided silver hair.
“Yes, yes.” The old man bobbed his head. “I be Bregga, retainer here.” He offered Ash a kind smile. “Your room’s atop the stairs, Mistress—fresh quilts and water. Two chambers below for you and yours, sire. Pantry’s bare of supper, but the kettle still remembers how to boil for tea. Outhouse in the back.”
“That will do,” Race said.
Bregga nodded and shuffled off down the passage again.
Ash glanced at the tight staircase hugging the left wall, lamplight spilling warmly over the wood.
For the past few nights, she’d slept against Race, using him as both mattress and heater. Now, with so much strife betweenthem, that simple comfort was lost. She rubbed her temples wearily.
“You’re about to fall off your feet. Up you go.” A heavy palm settled on her lower back and nudged her, and tension rushed straight back into her.
She climbed the worn wooden steps, sliding her fingertips along the smooth banister, her gaze fixed on a small stained-glass window at the top of the stairs—the only bit of color in the dingy, cramped landing.
Race moved past her, his hard body brushing hers. He opened a narrow, dark timber door. Dim light from the room carved the planes across his face as he stood back and waited. He raised an eyebrow when she stalled. “Ash, standing there won’t make me disappear.”
“You have a room downstairs.”
“I don’t sleep. Much.”
Right. Blowing out a deep breath, Ash trudged into the attic-like room warmed by a compact, three-legged pot-bellied stove in the corner. The space was barely large enough to swing a cat—not that she would swing the poor kitty—the massive bed occupying nearly three-quarters of the room.
Race ducked through the low doorframe, entering behind her. The door clicked shut, and her heartbeat tripped.
He strolled past her, close enough that his warm, seductive scent curled around her. He headed straight for the window and freed the bottom hinge with a sharp twist. The pane canted outward, and cold night air spilled inside, carrying the acrid trace of old smoke and damp stone.
With his palm braced against the wall and his shoulders tense, he stared down at the street as if he’d rather be out there. His shoulders rose and fell as if he took a deep breath. Then he yanked off his cloak, tearing it free, and flung it onto the benchbeneath the window. His ebony dagger followed with a sharp clatter.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
Oo-kay, then.Ash skirted the bed, where her backpack sat on a folded, patched fur throw. She removed her coat and hung it on a wall hook beside the basin.
“Do you think they got Flaeron?” she asked, turning to find him watching her, his eyes dark with something she couldn’t quite discern.
He shrugged. “Unlikely. He’s with his soldiers. Better if they slow him down and return once it’s safe.”
She rubbed her cold hands down her tunic. “So, he’ll come after me.”
“He can try.”
“Race—”
“He won’t touch you.” Cold, so cold.
Okay, okay, she knew he wouldn’t let that happen. But unable to settle, she crossed to the pot-bellied stove and held out her hands. “Why did he call youwingless?”
