Page 39 of Let Slip the Dogs of War

He hesitates for a moment, and there’s the slightest tremble in his fingers before he takes my hand. The touch is feather-light, but I follow him anyway, breathing a little easier once the door to the greenhouse closes behind us.

“I’ll—I can sleep on the sofa,” I say.

“No,” Lark says, and when I look at him in surprise, his gaze darts away again. “It is not—Of course I want you in my bed, but it is not just that. The servants may well arrive before you wake. It will look suspicious if you are out there alone.”

He’s already steering me into the bedroom, and I have to admit that the bed looks inviting. Lark lets go of my hand, only to move his to my lower back. He propels me in the direction of the bed.

“I can sleep on the floor,” he says, but I’m already shaking my head.

“It’s your bed.” And it’s big enough for two. And as anxiety-inducing and exciting as sleeping in the same bed as him is—especially after I want you in my bed, because, what the fuck?—I’m too exhausted for any of that.

“Get undressed,” Lark says, even quieter, and heat prickles my skin even as I know he doesn’t mean it like that. I kick off my shoes and pull off my jumper, and when I glance over, Lark is already down to his underwear.

Okay, maybe not too exhausted. My mouth goes dry and heat sweeps through me. Without his glamour, his skin seems to shimmer in the low light, iridescent patterns flowing over him, and I can’t tell if I can only see them because they’re magical or if I’d be able to see them anyway. Broad shoulders taper to a narrow waist and slender, long legs that—

Lark lifts his head. He sees me looking. His eyes roam over me in turn, but I’m still standing there in my T-shirt and jogging bottoms, and I reflexively wrap my arms around my middle.

I don’t look like that. I don’t look anything close to that, and I’m aware of it in a startling shock of a way, so much so that I almost can’t catch my breath.

Lark comes closer. He gently tugs on my arms, then catches the hem of my T-shirt and pulls it up. My cheeks flame, eyes hot and stinging as he drags it over my head and tosses it aside. I don’t think of how I look much, most of the time. My pack is full of so many different people who look so many different ways, but there’s no hidden physical strength in my round stomach or big thighs.

“What has you so worried?” Lark murmurs. His fingers stroke gently just above my waistband. “You need rest.”

“I-I know, I—” I don’t know how to explain it to him. I don’t want to. “Lark!”

He steps in even closer and wraps his arms around me, pressing us chest to chest. His heart beats faster than mine. I didn’t know that about the fae.

“You are—” The words catch in his throat, and I blink back hot tears. I’m too tired. I wouldn’t be this weak, this vulnerable, if I’d rested. Lark’s whole body trembles. “You have nothing you should be ashamed of. Come. We should sleep.”

I nod, biting my lip to keep my emotions to myself. It’s not enough. And it’s not his fault; I can’t make him say things he doesn’t believe. He literally can’t do that, which I’ve always fantasised as some fun character trait to have in a boyfriend—if he told me he thought I was hot, or he loved me, there’d be no way he was lying—but he can’t even say it.

“Yeah, okay,” I say and step away from him to take off my joggers myself. I leave them where they fall and then crawl into the bed and at least I’m right about one thing. It’s incredibly comfortable.

The mattress dips when Lark climbs in beside me. He shuffles a little closer, and I tense when he wraps an arm around my middle, but I don’t push him away. I don’t want to. His fingers trace patterns over my skin.

“Sleep,” he murmurs. “We will fix it all when we wake again.”

Chapter Thirteen

Lark

Apulse of weak, unfamiliar magic drags me out of sleep, and I lash out without thinking, then hear a startled cry from the next room.

Where am I? What is happening?

It comes back to me all at once. My magic roils within me, glad to be let out of its cage and unleashed on another and, in my arms, Dante stirs. He makes a soft, disgruntled sound that has me melting against him.

We are here to save Ophelia. We are here for me to take the throne, to fulfil my fated destiny.

Someone knocks hesitantly at the door. I let go of Dante and sit up. My magic tells me that Grant is the one standing there, two weak, quaking fae somewhere beyond him.

“Yes?”

He pushes the door open a little way, only leaning his head around it. I am not certain what he can see of Dante from here, but I want it to be nothing.

“The fae are here.” At my blank look, he continues, “The ones who are helping us with our clothes tonight? They brought lunch, too, if either of you is hungry.”

I suppose I am, but more important is whether or not Dante is. I incline my head in recognition and Grant’s eyes skip past me, just once, before he presses his lips together in a thin line. His usually open expression is unreadable, but he merely shrugs and disappears again, closing the door with a quiet click.