Page 42 of House of Crimson Cloak and Silver Teeth

“Why not?” He sways slightly. “You said you did when you were a kid.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“I didn’t have a choice. You do.” I pull him upright.

He considers this with the careful deliberation of the very drunk. “That’s a good point. You make good points, Wolf.”

“Come on.” I take his elbow. “Let’s get you home.”

I end up walking him back to the keep, one hand on his elbow to keep him steady. He leans into me more than necessary.

I tell myself it’s just because he’s drunk. That’s all. Nothing more.

But when his hand finds mine in the darkness between streetlamps, I don’t pull away.

We make it to his chambers without incident. I open the door and guide him inside. He collapses onto his bed with a groan, not bothering to remove his boots or coat.

“Wolf?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. For tonight.” He waves a hand vaguely. “For... everything.”

“Get some sleep, Garrett.”

“Will you be here in the morning?”

“I’m always here.”

He smiles, eyes already closing. “Good.”

I watch him for a moment longer, making sure he’s actually going to sleep. His breathing evens out, deep and steady. In sleep, he looks younger. The worry lines smooth from his face and he looks almost peaceful.

When I’m satisfied he’s down for the night, I settle into the chair by his window. The moon paints everything in silver and shadow.

I think about what Garrett said. About being more than a killer. I think about his fingers on my hand in the tavern, the softness in his eyes when he looked at me.

These thoughts could get you killed, my Wolven instinct whispers.

It very well could. But for now, with Garrett breathing softly in sleep behind me and the moon shining through the window, I let myself wonder what it might be like to be someone who could be more than what the guild made them.

I imagine it for a moment.

Then I go back to watching the shadows.

Chapter Six

The morning arrives with a pounding headache. Someone’s hammering on Garrett’s door like they’re trying to break through solid oak.

Garrett groans from his bed, pulling the pillow over his head. “Go away.”

I’m already awake. I don’t sleep much anyway. The chair by the window isn’t comfortable and what little rest I managed was plagued by fragmented dreams of Garrett’s fingers touching my hand across the tavern table.

The hammering continues, insistent and rhythmic. Whoever’s on the other side isn’t going anywhere.

“My lord!” A guard’s voice, young and urgent. “Commander Clayborne! Sir, please!”