Page 71 of Property of Prophet

“I don’t want you getting cold.”

“You’re warm. Stay.”

We stay, joined together on top of the furs, blankets, and sheets.

My cheek rests on his chest. His heartbeat moves under my ear, steady and almost human. Almost is close enough. Almost is more real than anything I owned before him. After a long while, I shift, and we move under the covers.

Beneath the furs, my hand finds his and resumes its work, thumb pressing slow circles into the swollen joints. A month ago, he would have told me the ache didn’t matter. Tonight, he turns his hand over and offers me the other side.

“Was it worth it?” I ask his chest. “Trading eternity for a body with bad joints.”

He considers the question with his usual unhurried honesty. “The joints, no. The rest of it...” His hand tightens around mine. “I’d fall again tomorrow, and slower, to enjoy the view on the way down.” His arms come around me with excessive care, the hold of a man convinced I might dissolve.

Over by the stove, Bear heaves himself upright. Nails clicking across the boards, he crosses the room and collapses over our feet with a sigh of profound personal sacrifice.

“He approves,” Prophet says.

“He approved of you before I did. Traitor took one look at you and defected.”

“He has excellent judgment.”

“He eats snow and argues with ravens.”

“Excellent judgment,” Prophet repeats, and the smile moves through his chest where my ear is pressed against.

Silence for a while. The good kind, the kind this cabin never held before him. Outside, boots crunch past on the perimeter, unhurried. Somewhere above the ridge, an animal cries once and goes quiet, and I would put money on it wearing a cut. The mountain leans over all of us, ancient and indifferent, keeping no opinions.

“They heard us,” I say, without much regret.

“Vex certainly did. Ranger too.”

“Wonderful.”

“Rooster will tease us endlessly, more me than you. Hollywood will have started a betting pool.” His fingers trail down my spine. “Someone is collecting tonight.”

Strangely, the thought doesn’t bother me. Five years of guarding every sound I made, and now seven supernatural men on my perimeter know exactly how I sound when I come undone.

My fingers trace the tattoos along his ribs. His hand moves through my hair with the slow patience of a man who has finally been given something to be patient about.

Tomorrow holds fanatics, an ancient angel older and a ritual with my name written into it.

Tonight, there is only one question worth asking...

“What happens after this?”

His hand keeps moving through my hair. Prophet doesn’t pretend to misunderstand, and he doesn’t reach for comfort either, because he knows what comfort costs with me.

“I don’t know,” he says. “But it involves you.”

“Don’t make promises.”

“I’m not making a promise. I’m stating a fact.”

He learned my language months ago, somewhere between the sutures and the snares, and now he speaks it back to me fluently. Promises broke me once. Facts I understand. Facts can be tested.

“Okay,” I say.

The word settles into the room and stays.