Page 163 of Veil of Blood and Bone

Except, of course, keeping Helene alive.

Now I combat the wind to get to them, a horrifying necessity.

Aw, don’t bore me, the voice adds. Try it. See if you are able to confront the jötun alone. Prove she’s worth it to you.

Sink into the raven, into a part of my mind where panic, fear, and that god’s damned voice can’t reach me.

Detaching, I let the bird take over, using muscle memory and magic to get me to the house.

I land on the sill, wind-battered but whole.

The sick sense of control disappears and drains everything but that rage from me. Of course they didn’t wait.

The bloodletter and the Dökkálfar are gone.

Chapter 33

Nicholas

“Fucking Forest,” I growl.

Wren shrugs, his nonchalance hiding a worry he can't quite squash. “He told us to hold. So we are.”

I pace from the door to the window and squint through the whiteout. “Waiting has never been a priority of mine.”

“Or a talent, it seems,” Wren adds. “Mistakes happen when you hesitate rather than make a move.”

And yet...

My entire existence has been forced into a perpetual loop of pause. The harder I fight and advance and accomplish and succeed, the worse it is in the long run.

Caution, I’ve found through practice, is definitely the way to go. But I will not stop.

“Well, he’s out of sight.” Wren shrugs, shadows playing across his skin. His eyes are black pits. No matter what ease he pretends, he’s pissed. He’s frantic. “Shall we?”

Helene doesn’t care for us enough to stay.

I hate those words. I hate them as much as I love how the walls of the apartment are imprinted with the scent of our sex. It’s in the wallpaper now, the plaster and lathe and foundation. There’s no way to erase the energy of what we did together, but she is bound and determined to try.

Sweat. Blood. Her perfume.

The sharp sweetness of arousal still clings to the floorboards. The bedroom reeks of Wren’s magic and Helene’s skin. Even the cracked tile in the kitchen carries traces of her.

She lingers everywhere except where I need her. A cruel joke, perhaps, that vampires are creatures built to track what belongs to them.

My fangs lengthen, bloodlust surging. “You want to leave?”

Wren sits back. “I wish you’d stop repeating me when I’m stating the obvious.”

“You’re unusually eager.”

“And you’re unusually slow.”

My jaw tightens.

Wren studies me from beneath dark lashes, posture loose despite the stormy weather battering the windows and rattling the panes.

“What?” I snap.