Page 97 of Bone Year

“That’s generally what the bite mark implies.”

“How much.”

“I don’t know. A lot. I didn’t time him.”

“Did he do anything else.”

“He tried.”

Draven goes very still.

“I stopped him.”

“Tell me you stopped him.”

“I stopped him, Draven.”

Whatever was rising in him goes back down by a few degrees. He exhales.

“Good. You could have died if he’d taken too much.”

“Would that have been so bad?”

He winces, hurt, then the stone slides back into place.

He crouches in front of me again, and one arm slides under my knees, the other behind my back, and he’s lifting me against his chest like I weigh nothing at all.

“Put me down.”

“No.”

“I can walk.”

“You can barely sit. Try again.”

“I hate you.”

“Noted. Shut up.”

My head falls against his shoulder without my permission, and gods he’s warm. How is he warm? Everything about him reads like frost. His hands in the practice hall are always cold. His voice is always cold. But here with my cheek pressed to the hollow of his throat, he burns like a forge.

I can feel his heart through his shirt. It’s going too fast.

He’s not as calm as he’s pretending to be.

“You’re mad at me,” I mumble.

“Yes.”

“Because I let Malric bite me?”

His arms tighten.

“Because you let a predator put his teeth on your throat when you were in pieces. You could have come to… Because you made a stupid choice, and now I’m the one walking you back to your room at three in the morning. Lucky me.”

“You don’t have to. You don’t owe me anything.”

“I know. That’s the problem.”