“Don’t be a dick.”
I take off my jacket and waistcoat—the same thing I was wearing yesterday, maybe I should leave some clothes in Oxford—and look over my shoulder at Simon. He’s tucked himself into a knot under the blanket and buried his face in his pillow. His hair is curling in every direction. Big, fat curls. He must have gone to sleep with it wet.
I look down at my shoes and quickly unlace them. I take off my socks and my trousers, my button-down shirt, and—after a second of deliberation—my T-shirt. It feels strange to get undressed without anyone requesting it or giving me permission. I suppose I’m requesting it. I’m the one who wants it.
I get under the blanket. Snow reaches out to me and pulls me against him. He’s still sleep-warm. I feel his tail sliding over my thigh. We’re face-to-face, but he’s not looking in my eyes.
“Don’t be angry with me yet,” he whispers. His breath smells rotten. Maybe if he were someone else, I’d mind.
“When do I get to be angry?” I ask.
He knocks his forehead against mine, still looking down. “Later.”
“All right,” I whisper.
He brings his hand up, catches his thumb on my bottom lip. “You’re pink.”
“Breakfast,” I say.
He rubs my lip roughly against my teeth. My jaw goes slack.
Simon glances up, into my eyes, and then rubs my lip again, more gently. I shiver.
I touch his side, his skin, his ribs. He thinks he’s fat—he isn’t. He just isn’t a starving teenager anymore. He’s solid and stalwart. And so warm . . . His skin feels different when he’s been sleeping, I don’t understand why. Thicker somehow, more lush. I move my hand to the small of his back, just above his tail, and pull him closer—he grimaces.
I lift my hand away. “Are you injured?”
Snow shrugs. “A bit. My wing’s cut up. From the glass in the Chapel. I have to heal the old-fashioned way.”
I kiss his cheek, quickly. “What can I do?”
“Can you . . .” He pushes me onto my back (I let him) and rolls partly on top of me. It frees up his wings, and he relaxes them, half spread, above us. “Thanks.”
I reach up to pet the edge of one wing. It twitches.
“Does that hurt?” I ask.
“No, it . . .” He wrinkles his nose, like he isn’t sure. “No—it’s sensitive; it doesn’t hurt. The cuts are farther back.”
I go on, rubbing the bony ridge of his wing. It’s kid-glove soft and warm like the rest of him.
Simon relaxes into me, nuzzling his face in my cheek.
I’m going to miss these wings. This tail. I won’t tell him so—I don’t blame him for wanting them gone. But I love them now the way I love every part of him. I get my other arm around him, and rub his other wing, too. He groans into my neck.
“Okay?” I ask.
He nods. After a minute, he mumbles, “Do you feel like you’re in bed with a dragon?”
“Not in a bad way,” I whisper, feeling the thick cords that run through the top of his wings. (Simon Snow has muscles no one else does.) “Do you feel like you’re in bed with a vampire?”
“Yes,” he says. Then laughs.
I move my hands down to his sides, where it’s safe to pinch him.
“Ouch,” he laughs. “I’m injured.”
I pinch him again, just above his waistband.
