Page 89 of The Sun He Buried

“That’s not what this looks like.”

“Snowpetal.” I set the unicorn behind my pillow. “Baldr’s allowed near the bed. He’s not food.”

Baldr looks down at himself. “A comfort.”

I hold out my hand.

He comes close enough to take it.

Snowpetal growls again when he bends to kiss me.

Baldr straightens.

I look at her.

“We’re going to have a problem.”

She sits.

I climb off the bed, take the last strip of dried meat from my travel bag, and lay it on the rug beside the hearth.

Snowpetal watches my hand.

“This is your bed.”

She looks at the meat.

Then at my bed.

“You have a fire.”

Her nose moves.

“And no one will touch the unicorn.”

Snowpetal jumps down, collects the meat, and turns three circles on the rug. She lies with her chin on both front paws and the strip held between them.

“See?”

Baldr looks at the Sanguir, then at me. “You bribed her.”

“I explained the benefits.”

“With meat.”

“She’s a practical animal.”

His hand closes around my waist.

“Now,” I whisper, “before she changes her mind.”

Baldr kisses me.

He still smells of the road—cold air, leather, and three days without a razor scratching my cheek. His mouth is warm. My fist closes in his tunic, and I tug him between my knees.

Snowpetal crunches the dried meat behind us.

I ignore her.