Page 86 of Veil of Blood and Bone

She always slept on the couch, begging a bad back. She always made it a comfortable nest for herself.

Once we stayed in a place where my bedroom had butter yellow walls. The days of tacking up posters of my favorite musicians and actors, then taking them down, are long gone.

Audra’s bed is tucked between mine and the wall to make sure, if she rolls or seizes, I’m there. She won’t hurt herself. A shield of pillows protects her from hitting her head. But luxury?

Nonexistent.

It’s stark practicality.

Wren sets Audra on her bed and I wrap a blanket around her legs, propping a pillow behind her head.

Exhaustion sets in, and rather than tell Wren he’s safer in the living room, I sink against my own pillow fort. I draw another loosely knitted quilt to my chin when I shiver.

“This is the day that never ends,” I whisper.

And Wren only settles at my side. He stretches long legs out until his feet dangle over the bottom and balances his head on his hand, elbow hidden in the pillows.

“I like looking at you.” His voice is a caress.

“You shouldn’t. You should be horrified.”

And also embarrassed. Or smart.

“Of you? Never. I’ve seen too much.”

He traces my forehead with the pad of his thumb, his gaze warming when I remain motionless.

He hesitates. “Would you like to know how we first met?”

Will it help?

“Since it wasn’t when you were searching the shelves of Thorn & Candle today?” I ask.

This quiet moment is a luxury, too.

Damp strands fall into my face before he brushes them back.

“Thousands of years ago,” he starts like it’s a joke, “a young Fae male fell in love with a girl.”

“Aw, stop it.” But I don’t push him away.

“He was a cruel sort of male, some said. Detached to a fault. Lied as easily as breathing and never let himself want things.” Wren flops on his back with his hands balanced behind his head. “Blame it on his parents, everyone does.”

“And here comes the tragic backstory,” I say, voice light.

“Only in that it made the male deeply guarded.” His face screws into a scowl. “He hates feeling vulnerable. His family has always danced close to the throne without touching it. Perhaps that’s part of it. Politically savvy advisors, manipulators, kingmakers.”

His shadows thread between us, draping my forearms, lifting them overhead until I turn to face him.

“A manipulation of darkness. The male can disappear into them, weaponize them, or twist them into illusions. It’s a subtle magic. Psychological. He doesn’t blast power. He whispers it.”

A shiver travels through me.

“Tired of the court games, although he played them better than anyone else, he sought a change of scenery. Asgard. The golden playground of gods and one of many doors in the Nine Realms.”

It’s effortless to listen to him and sit there with him, much more than I thought it would be. His presence blocks out the driving rain outside and the aches settling in my muscles.

“He met her…” Wren’s eyes blur, go distant. “On the battlefield, with her sword lifted and her shield at the ready. He respected her, and for a man who kept everyone else at a distance, she was the variable he didn’t plan for or see coming. She made him want to get messy.”