Maxen pushed thedoor open to Calliope’s chamber and slipped inside. He spotted the lump on the bed instantly. Two lumps, to be exact. One of them lifted its head to look at him, and he stilled. The hound stared for a full second before dropping his head back down.
Good boy.
He closed the door behind him and crossed the room soundlessly. She did not stir, not even when a gust of wind set the curtains billowing. At the foot of the bed he paused, unmoving, staring.
Contemplating.
Her face was half-buried in the pillow, hair tumbling loose about her. Her lashes lay dark against her cheeks, and for once her mouth held no stubborn curve—only a soft, parted bow that did something to the flow of blood to his heart. Even the proud line of her nose seemed gentled in sleep. She looked more innocent. Softer. As though the world had never sought to carve its due from her.
A heaviness pressed against his chest, too dangerous to name aloud. He had no right to be here. He should leave. Walk out. Pretend he hadn’t come this far, hadn’t threatened to burn this damn inn to the ground, hadn’t crossed this line.
His feet refused to move.
What now, you clever simpleton?
Her eyelids twitched and her brow slightly furrowed.
Was she having a nightmare?
Bad dreams were probably the only foe he could not fight. His gaze dropped to her valise. He hadn’t known what he’d find. Somehow, her and her hound sleeping so utterly defenselessly had not crossed his mind.
His hand brushed over her slipper in his pocket.
She was not someone they had to worry about.
But she was the woman from that night. One mystery solved, a dozen more crowding in. He wasn’t ready to wake her. Wasn’t ready to face her eyes when they opened. Still, there were things he had to say. Words he hadn’t managed when they counted. Words that didn’t come easily to men like him. Orders, silence, fists? Yes,thatwas his language. Not one he could speak with her, however.
He carefully drew a chair closer and lowered himself into the seat. And waited. Yet the longer he sat, the harder it became to keep still. He leaned forward, elbows braced against his knees, and let his gaze settle on her face. Close enough now to see the pale freckles on her face. Close enough to hear the even breath she drew. Too close.
His hand rose before he could stop it, tracing a finger over her cheek. He froze. What in God’s name was he doing? He drew his hand back, fingers curling into a fist, then reached out again.
Just once.
His fingertip skimmed over her cheekbone.
So soft.
He couldn’t exactly feel her skin through his gloves, but imagination had no mercy. He almost removed a glove just to confirm what he already knew to be true. But there, he drew the line.
He never removed his gloves.
Not in front of people.
Not even his brothers.
How many times had he done this? Sat in the dark beside the bed of one of his brothers—watching over them as they slept off wounds or too much whisky. Too many. Knight, after he’d taken a blade for a message gone wrong. Dagger, when he’d nearly drowned himself in a bottle after he lost a friend to an unknown death. Even Saint, whose silence could bleed into something far more dangerous when left without a compass. Maxen had always kept watch. If he didn’t, who would?
But this was different.
She wasn’t his brother.
She wasn’t his family.
And yet she had lodged in his veins like gunpowder, a spark away from ruin. Impossible to dig out.
He leaned back, the chair creaking beneath him, and pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes. His heart hadn’t settled since he’d found Reaper tied up and her gone. Fury was his name, the name he had chosen, but he hadn’t known fury like that. And not the raging kind. Or yes, perhaps raging. But not raging in anger. Raging in all the ways but that.
She didn’t belong in his ship?
