Page 208 of A Vicious Love

Sienna’s gaze dropped suddenly to my side. Her expression changed. This time sharpened by something delicate and guilty.

“Your holsters.”

I glanced down.

The leather across my ribs was soaked, darkened almost black from water. The shoulder rig had taken most of the damage. The secondary holster at my back had scraped against stone, one strap visibly torn near the buckle, etched Crow dialect along the leather edge had water trapped in the grooves.

Her face fell.

“Oh no.”

I frowned. “What?”

“Will the water ruin them?”

“Sienna.”

She came closer, forgetting for a second that she was angry, that she was nearly naked under my jacket. Reeves stood six feet away pretending not to witness the collapse of my self-control.

Her fingers hovered near the strap across my ribs.

“Can I check?” she asked.

Reeves became extremely interested in gauze.

Sienna realized what she had said half a breath later. Colour swept over her face, but she didn’t step back.

“Yes.” My voice came out rough.

She touched the leather with two fingertips.

Ridiculous. Obscene. I had taken bullets with less reaction. Her fingertips moved over the wet holster, careful along the Crow scripture burned into the edge.

“What does this say?” she asked.

I looked down at her bent head, my jacket sliding open again because apparently every object in the cottage had joined a conspiracy to kill me.

“It’s old Harlan Crow dialect.”

“I thought so.” Her fingers traced the marking without pressing. “But I can only read little pieces.”

Reeves looked up, faintly surprised.

I was worse. “You can read any of it?”

She shrugged, suddenly shy. “A little. I studied dynasty scripts for a while. Ballet donors use old family mottos in stage crests, and I liked knowing what the decorations meant.”

Of course Sienna Bellemere saw letters on old seals and bothered to learn the dead language underneath because beauty meant more to her when effort lived inside it.

“Crow dialect isn’t taught though, so I’m roughly guessing from other languages.”

“What piece can you read?” I asked.

Her fingertip paused at the strap across my ribs. “Blood remembers.”

My throat worked once.

“Yes,” I said.