Page 51 of Death Will Follow

“The night is warm,” Bryn said, tearing her eyes away from the Noble and looking at Callan and Nova. “The room is meant for two. I’d rather bed down in the hayloft in the stables where I can hear the rain.”

“Lore’s family owns The Wilted Bloom. I’m certain they won’t object.” With a slow tilt of her head, Riven indicated to the antlered barmaid before speaking directly to Bryn. “I can help get you settled. Perhaps we can finish planning our little heist.”

Bryn nodded wordlessly. Riven dipped her chin to Callan and Nova before leaving to pay her tab at the bar, Bryn following close behind, caught up in the female’s wake. Callan snatched up his cloak and threw it about his shoulders, raising the hood to cover his head and hide his face, more aware of his reputation than he had been in a great while. Nova cupped his face once again, her cool hands easing the prickly heat climbing his neck.

“Come, my love.” Nova spoke softly, her hands sliding from his chin to his chest. “Take me to bed.”

Twenty-One

Bed was a generous term for what the innkeeper had sold them for the night. A lumpy straw mattress sat on a low platform on one side of the cramped attic room. The roof slanted over the bed, a single pane of glass providing a view of the night sky. Bryn was right. The night was warm. Callan knelt on the mattress and wrenched the ancient hook latch, opening the window a crack. The angle of the glass allowed fresh air into the room while still keeping out the rain. Drops pattered against the windowpane in a peaceful rhythm.

Turning around, Callan sat on the edge of the bed and surveyed the room. Though the space was sparsely decorated and almost too small for him to stand at his full height, it had an unexpected amenity: a wooden soaking tub. For a few more coins, the innkeeper’s daughter had begrudgingly hauled several buckets of steaming water up from the kitchen along with a bar of wildflower soap.

Nova lounged in the tub, gingerly cleaning herself with a cloth, seemingly giddy at the luxury of a hot bath after so many nights sleeping wild beneath a shower of cold spring rain. Callan could easily watch her bathe for eternity but decided to make himself useful instead. The mattress served as a welcome outlet for his pent-up aggression after the near brawl in the tavern. Lumps of straw were no match for his fists as he pounded the mattress of rough burlap, shaping it into something suitable for Nova to sleep on.

When his breath grew ragged, he stopped and examined his knuckles. Reddened and angry, the skin stung as he flexed his fingers, stretching it tight. For an instant, he imagined how it would have felt to strike the drunk. Soft flesh giving way to bone beneath. The solid thud of a fist against his smirking face.

Calm down, love.

Nova’s voice prodded at the edge of his mind, pulling him from his violent thoughts. He rose to stand beside the bed, ducking his head to avoid the slanted ceiling. Chest rising and falling with quick breaths, he turned to face her and scrubbed a hand over the lower half of his face. Her fine brows pinched with worry, she extended her hand in the space between them, beckoning him to her side.

Callan crossed to the tub and knelt beside it, resting his elbows on the edge. Nova took his right hand and dipped it beneath the water. He sucked in a breath through his clenched teeth. The bathwater was still hot and stung the tiny abrasions on his knuckles. Gently, Nova cleaned his hand with the cloth, the sweet scent of wildflower soap soothing his nerves. When she finished with his right hand, she moved on to his left. Bit by bit, Callan’s anger faded as she cared for him.

When she’d finished washing his raw knuckles and his breathing had slowed to a measured rhythm, she spoke.

“What troubles you?”

“That prick in the tavern.” His heartbeat surged again at the memory, and he inhaled a deep breath to keep it under control.

“He was an ass,” Nova agreed, “but surely you’ve faced worse baiting without reaching for your blade.”

“It’s this place.” Callan’s eyes went to the ceiling, his hands gesturing at the room. At the great, wild landscape stretching out in every direction beyond the crooked walls of The Wilted Bloom.

“I don’t understand,” she murmured.

“There’s something here.” Callan exhaled sharply, reining in his emotions and focusing his thoughts. “In the air. It pulls at our baser instincts. Compels us to fight—” His eyes darted around the room again before catching on her.

The delicate crease between her brows. Her fair cheeks pinked from the steaming bathwater. Breasts soft and ripe, like fruit begging to be taken into his mouth. Savored.

“And to fuck,” he finished.

Nova’s steel gaze darkened at his words, her pulse quickening at her throat.

“Is that why Riven took Bryn to the stables?”

“No,” Callan huffed a laugh. “Riven took Bryn to the stables because she wanted to. They’re Wyldlings. They don’t feel it.”

Nova gripped the open collar of his shirt and tugged gently.

“But you feel it,” Callan said, reaching behind his neck and pulling the garment over his head, then casting it aside.

“All these nights.” Nova nodded in slow understanding, as if he’d revealed the answer to an insufferable riddle. “Sleeping beside you without feeling you inside me. It’s been unbearable.”

She brought his hands to her chest, her head falling back as he palmed her breasts, brushing his thumbs over her nipples. Nova’s breath hitched, but Callan’s awareness narrowed to his reddened knuckles.

In an instant, he was transported back to the Wylds. A bloody scene in an abandoned temple. Surrounded by bodies. Lives ended by his hands. Trembling hands slick with blood.

Returning to himself, Callan pressed his eyes shut and wrapped his arms around Nova’s back, drawing her closer to him and resting his forehead against the space between her breasts. Her skin was warm and wet beneath his fingertips, the sensations grounding him back in the present moment.