Page 79 of Fang Fatale

That's new.

I finger the feather.

It is soft and slightly iridescent, and I think about the way he'd looked at me as we picked our way down the ridge.

Like a man cataloging possibilities but not yet choosing.

Like a man who doesn't braid hair...

...but might, if it meant keeping someone calm.

For reasons I can't explain, that makes my stomach fizz all over again.

I head for the door and catch a thread of conversation floating up the staircase.

"...literally carried her the whole way," Theo is saying.

"He wouldn't let anybody else touch her."

A beat.

"Cradled the back of her head the entire trip down the mountain like she was made of glass."

I freeze on the stairs.

Trent snorts.

"Bit melodramatic, isn't he?"

"That's Alaric for you." Theo laughs. "All drama, zero chill. Honestly, it was disgustingly romantic."

Heat floods my face.

"And I think," Theo continues with obvious delight, "our fearless detective's got it bad for his client."

There is a brief silence, followed by the shriek of a kettle.

I remain rooted to the step for another heartbeat, trying very hard to convince my pulse that it can calm down now.

It completely ignores me.

I step lightly down the stairs, a skill acquired during the years when you didn't want to alert your mother to a midnight snack raid.

Alaric spots me first.

Of course he does.

He looks tired.

Not sleepy.

Used up.

There are fresh bruises shadowing one cheek, and his shirt hangs differently over one shoulder where the bandages pull beneath the fabric. The kind of exhaustion that settles into someone after they've spent the night making impossible decisions.

Guilt pinches somewhere behind my ribs.

Despite that, he crosses the room carrying a mug of something fragrant and caffeinated.