Page 226 of Harbinger

Bishop’s face rearranges into the expression he wears right before he tells me something I’m not going to like.

So, I beat him to it. “He’s staying.”

“Arden.”

“Bishop,” I repeat in the same exasperated tone.

“Horned wolves grow to the size of ponies. He cannot live in the house.”

But I won’t abandon the pup. Ever. I made a promise. “Luckily, Miradores is large enough to parade a carriage and horses through.”

Bishop pinches the bridge of his nose. His head drops for a moment. His shoulders are shaking, very slightly, and after a second, I realize he’s quietly laughing.

I don’t think at me. Maybe at the situation. At his own life. At the fact that it’s midnight, he’s still covered in blood, and we’re arguing about whether a dangerous beast gets house privileges.

The sight of him laughing steals my breath.

The wolf is definitely staying.

By the time he straightens, he’s composed again, but light dances in his eyes.

“You’re impossible.”

He shakes his head as he begins stripping out of his ruined clothes.

“And I always will be. Maybe you should kick me out,” I tease, but even as I say it, heaviness settles through me.

One day, he might need to.

I push the thought away and focus on the fact that Bishop is now half naked. It brightens my mood considerably.

But he doesn’t come to bed. Instead, he stands over me, gaze skimming across my skin as he catalogues my injuries one more time.

“I’m going to live.” It’s meant as a joke, but something tells me he needs to hear me say it.

Finally, he sits beside me and wraps an arm around my shoulders. Drawing me closer, he kisses my forehead.

“I was scared,” he murmurs against my skin.

“Me too.” I can admit it.

Bishop doesn’t say anything else for a few moments. He just holds me.

But I can’t stop thinking about the Cinderwald, about Laurel, about the man who tried to kill me. And the one who claimed his life for it.

“You took his heart,” I say quietly. “Are you okay?”

Bishop raises his other hand to my cheek and turns my chin so I’m facing him. He doesn’t hide the pain from me, as though the long night has worn a hole through the wall he’s built around himself.

“Let’s talk about it tomorrow,” he says, clearly not ready to tear down all his defenses yet. “Tonight, I want—”

He pauses, and in the place of pain is a hunger that sends a dizzying rush of blood to my brain. Along with several other parts of me.

“Tonight, I want this,” he says and brings his lips to mine, lingering there as if he’s proving to himself that I’m really here. Still in one piece. Alive.

I kiss him back like I am promising something. I don’t know what, but it feels important.

He makes a low sound against my mouth as his hand slides up the back of my neck into my hair. Shifting, he grabs my hips and lowers my body to the mattress. My legs close around him on instinct, but I pull away a fraction of an inch. I nod toward the foot of the bed, where the pup is watching. “Not in front of the baby.”