The flush deepened. She looked away, but not before he caught the small pleased curve of her mouth. “I didn’t do anything. I just walked around a town.”
“You walked around a town that terrifies you. You helped Tess when she was falling apart. You looked at your work in a shop window instead of hiding in the caves.” He kept his voice matter-of-fact because he’d learned that praise made her flinch if it came on too strong. “A year ago you couldn’t cross the threshold of my quarters without checking three times that the way back was clear. Don’t tell me you didn’t do anything.”
She didn’t answer. But she moved a fraction closer, until her shoulder nearly brushed his arm, and he felt the small trusting weight of that gesture settle somewhere deep in his chest.
They turned off the market square onto one of the side streets that led to Baralt’s house and ended up passing Rjmar’s shop again.
Doren lounged against the wall beside the entrance. He had propped one shoulder against the cold stone with the studied carelessness of someone who wanted to look like he didn’t care where he was. His golden mane caught what little light filtered through the overcast sky. He was picking at his claws with asmall knife, and when he saw them approaching, his mouth curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile.
“Clan Leader,” he drawled. “Slumming it in the port again? I’d have thought a male of your importance had people for that.”
“Doren.” He nodded and kept walking, uninterested in the male’s provocations. “Rjmar keeping you busy?”
“Rjmar keeps me fed.” The knife flashed as Doren flipped it and caught it. “In exchange for which I catalog his inventory, mind his shop, and listen to his opinions on the proper storage of dried fungus. It’s a thrilling existence.” His eyes flicked to Polly and sharpened with interest. “And who’s this? Another stray you’ve collected?”
He felt her go still beside him. He saw the old fear crawl back into her posture, but she didn’t retreat. Instead she lifted her chin and met Doren’s gaze.
“I’m Polly.”
“Polly.” Doren tasted the name like he was deciding whether he liked it. “You live up in those caves with him? Voluntarily?”
“Yes.”
“Huh.” He pushed off the wall and folded his arms, the knife disappearing somewhere into his sleeve. “Word of advice, then. From someone who’s learned the hard way. Everyone wants something from you.Everyone.The ones who feed you, the ones who house you, the ones who smile and tell you they’re just beingkind—” His lip curled around the word. “They’re all keeping a ledger. And sooner or later, they come to collect. Best to know the price before you sign.”
Silence hung in the cold air.
He opened his mouth to tell the bitter young male that his cynicism was a cage he’d built himself, and that not every hand reaching towards him was a fist, but Polly spoke first.
“That’s not true.”
Her voice was quiet. Not challenging, but certain, in the way she was certain about the few things she believed down to her bones.
Doren blinked. “Isn’t it?”
“No.” She held his gaze. “Some people give because giving is who they are. They don’t keep a ledger. They don’t come to collect. They just—show up. Again and again. Even when it costs them something. Even when you can’t pay them back.” A pause. “I know because I’ve met them. I live with one of them now.”
A glimpse of something raw and young flickered beneath the male’s sneer, gone almost before it appeared, and his jaw tightened.
“Then you’re lucky,” he said. “Or naive. Time will tell which.”
“Maybe.” She kept her chin up. “But I’d rather be naive and right than clever and alone.”
For a moment Doren had no answer at all. He stared at her, this small human female who’d flinched at his voice a moment ago and now met his cynicism head-on, and Njkall watched the male’s careful armor crack just slightly at the seam.
Then the shop door swung open and Rjmar’s voice barked out. “Doren! Are you cataloging or are you loitering? Those crates won’t count themselves.”
Doren’s face slammed shut again. “Duty calls.” He gave them a mocking half-bow. “Clan Leader. Polly.” He turned anddisappeared into the shop, and the door swung closed behind him.
They walked on in silence for a few steps.
“He’s angry,” she said finally.
“Yes.”
“But he’s not—” She frowned, searching for the word. “He’s not cruel. Not really. He’s just scared. Like a dog that’s been kicked so many times it bites before you can touch it.”
He looked down at her. At the tired brave face, and the grey eyes that saw so much more than she gave herself credit for. She’d been in Doren’s presence for less than two minutes and she’d read him with astonishing accuracy.
