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The problem is that every time I try looking at him like a suspect, I remember finding him half-conscious at the bottom of those stairs instead. And that makes it a hell of a lot harder to think clearly.

“I’m just saying,” Marius says, disrobed now with his pants hanging loosely against his waist, “that last night attracted one shadow too many.”

Rafe throws the shards into the bin, ignoring how Mariette hangs behind him like a frightened hen. “Exactly. Thank you, Madame Tragedy.”

Marius lifts one brow. “I’m not wrong.”

No, he isn’t. Question is, how the fuck did I miss that?

I may have been too busy admiring Rowan in the suit I sent him, looking pale and furious and gorgeous. The suit is ruined now, which means I’ll have to buy him some other clothes.

In the kitchen, Damaris has managed to wriggle himself free from Lucan and carefully picks up the tray. “Can I see him now?”

“No.” Lucan smirks.

Before the tray can clatter to the ground, I sneak it out of his hand and head for the stairs.

“Hey. He’s my best friend.”

Damaris’s voice sounds muffled and I don’t bother turning around to see what’s happening. Marius’s chuckle tells me enough.

“He’s sleeping anyway,” Lucan mutters.

Damaris makes an annoyed sound.

“And he’s concussed,” I add, continuing toward the stairs.

Rafe laughs. “Tell your bride we said good morning.”

“Fuck off.”

Behind me, I hear Lucan chuckle, Damaris bristle something under his breath, and a noise that sounds suspiciously like someone getting kissed just to annoy them further.

I carry the tray upstairs, shove open my bedroom door with my shoulder, and step inside. The quiet hits fast after the nonstop bullshit downstairs, and for the first time all morning, I can hear the rain tapping softly against the windows.

What feels even better is staring down at Rowan, still asleep in the middle of my bed, pale hair tangled across the pillow, one cheek pressed into the dark sheets.

Rafe was right. I’ve never allowed anyone in my bed more than once.

But my little mouse looks fucking beautiful under my sheets. My shirt hangs loose on him, one sleeve slipped down enough to reveal the fragile line of his shoulder.

His band glows a calm, steady green against the sheets, nothing like last night when I found him shaking and half crawling across the rooftop floor like he thought something was still chasing him.

What the hell happened up there anyway?

Rowan keeps looking at me like I’m the dangerous one, but that wasn’t fear of me in that chamber. There was something else there. Something he’s going to tell me today before Dad finds out.

But damn, the memory of him lying like a broken bird on the stone floor leaves something ugly sitting in my stomach. It reminds me too much of being dragged away from Mom while she reached for me through the smoke and I couldn't get to her.

I place the tray on my bedside table and crawl under the sheets. Rowan’s sleeping on his side, facing the window, but when I slide an arm around his waist, he sighs and relaxes back against me.

I press my chin to his shoulder, bury my face in the crook of his neck, and inhale.

Fuck, he smells good. Soap or shampoo or whatever the hell it is, it’s sweet enough to make me forget my own name and addictive enough that I crave more.

Just a taste, just once, before he wakes up and pushes me away and we have that conversation about secrets he’s been avoiding.

I trace the shell of his ear with my tongue and hum against his soft skin. It’s a little clammy, and so very tasty.