He nods toward a curtained alcove near the corner as a flush stains his cheeks. “Washroom’s through there. There’s a basin and cloth if you need it.”
The curtain rustles as I slip behind it. The space is small and simple with smooth stone walls, a worn basin carved from what looks like a rock of some kind, and shelves lined with rolled towels and sprigs of drying herbs.
I peel off the travel clothes Ilyria provided me, folding them neatly. I make quick work of wiping away the sweat and grime of the day spent in a field and our travel before tugging on the shirt. It hangs to mid-thigh, sleeves drooping past my hands. The fabric is soft against my skin, holding traces of cedar smoke and something distinctly Torryn. Warmth pools in my stomach as I lift a sleeve to breathe it in deeply.
It’s strange, the way a single scent can bring such peace.
When I emerge again, the main room is bathed in moonlight that streams in through the window. Torryn’s already in bed, one arm tucked beneath his head, the other resting loosely across his side with hisback to me. He’s shirtless and angled close to the edge of the mattress as if to take up as little space as possible.
A shiver runs over my bare legs and I quickly hurry to the bed, hoping the covers will provide the warmth I seek. The shirt brushes up my thighs as I slip under the cover. The bedding is colder than I anticipated at first, the chilly mountain air seeping through the walls despite their thickness, it seems. I curl into myself, tucking my legs up in an attempt to not shiver and bother Torryn.
I watch the steady rise and fall of his side with each breath, illuminated by the moonlight. Outside, the soft drone of crickets chatter, steady and soothing.
I feel it then–a warmth radiating from the other side of the bed.
Torryn.
Warmth, slow and steady, pulses off him. It calls to me without asking, a quiet invitation my body can’t ignore. It feels like the cold bed is stealing what little heat my body possesses.
I shift just a little closer.
Then again.
A few inches at a time.
His voice rumbles into the quiet night, low and grumbly.
“Wren.”
I freeze, my eyes going wide before squeaking out, “Yeah?”
A beat passes. “Why are you sneaking up on me?”
I flush at being caught, grateful his back is to me. “I’m cold.”
He exhales, the sound more huff than sigh. “Right, I should’ve thought of that.”
His body tenses for a second before he rolls to his back and lifts a heavy arm in silent invitation, the movement unhurried but sure. “Come here.”
For a second, all I can do is take in the etched muscles of his abdomen on display.
I take in a deep breath before sliding closer, pressing into the warmth of his chest. His arm settles gently around me and I curl into his touch like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He murmurs, “I’ll make sure there’s a fire tomorrow night. I’m sorry for my lack of thought.”
The words are rough around the edges, but I can feel the intent behind them. He’s already planning how to care for me better next time and being hard on himself for not anticipating my needs.
“Be kind to yourself,” I mumble, burrowing in further. “It’s not like you could have anticipated that I would be coming to your lands today, let alone staying in your home.”
A rumble passes through his chest and into my face, but he doesn’t protest.
The heat of him seeps into my skin like the sunrise in the field this morning. He’s all solid muscle and steady breath, his bare chest a wall of strength. I stay quiet, listening to the rhythm of the crickets outside, the whisper of wind through branches, and his heartbeat.
I let my heavy lids drift half-shut as I shift my hand to get more comfortable. The tips of my fingers brush along the ridges of muscle where his ribs meet his side and his body stiffens beneath my hand.
I freeze, breath catching as my eyes pop back open.
“Sorry,” I whisper, pulling back. “I didn’t mean to.”
