Page 85 of Veil of Blood and Bone

This kind of night, this kind of conversation, begs for a fire.

I shiver. “I feel gross.”

I’m still in the same jeans and black tank, the worn jersey spattered with gore. The troll’s death is painted on my skin in more than a coat of filth and grime.

“Go shower.” Wren rolls his shoulders and the matching spot in my body aches through the movement. “You’ve looked at the bathroom door five times. You’ll feel better after a boil. And please let me know if you need help.”

A hiccupping sob catches behind my teeth again. “What about Audra?”

“I’ll watch her.” Wren flashes a smile. His expression...there’s a certain peace in shared discomfort. “Go.”

He’s the kind of distraction to help me forget I’ve ever suffered.

Distractions come with strings I can’t afford.

I set my coffee aside and don’t look back.

Here, water never gets hot enough to boil, not unless I put a big soup pot on the stove. And then, I’m too scared to use the old tub. If I fill it with water plus my body weight, it will careen into the old drawing room turned Apartment A underneath me.

And trusting Wren to watch over Audra, leaving him alone in her, is probably a mistake.

The comfort of his presence has me shutting the bathroom door without locking it.

The first surge of the lukewarm water over my shoulders only grows the chill. It spreads through to my toes until I get used to the temperature of the shower and lean into the warmth.

Fuck today.

Fuck everything about it. Except making out in the bookstore. I enjoyed that.

It was my one highlight of the day before the whole thing devolved into bedlam and even the kisses had carried a frantic pulse of insanity.

Forest doesn’t know who he is, if I believe Wren. He doesn’t know me, either. But I’m supposed to know them?

I scrub the rosemary scented shampoo bar through my hair and let the suds filter away down the rust-stained drain.

No matter how hard I wash, the film of oddness from the day refuses to clean. It stays, as stubborn as I am, until I give up first and drop the soap.

Old squeaky handles catch before they shut the water valves and cut off the spray. Within minutes, my red hoodie is zipped halfway, yoga pants loose on my legs and damp hair secured in a messy bun, the strands fully intending to pull free.

Steam belches out behind me, and when I glance into the living room, Wren is still seated where I left him.

He lifts to his feet languidly. “All better?”

Not better. Never better. Only tolerable. I clench the edges of the hoodie together over my racing heart.

“Thanks for watching her.” She’s everything to me.

He cuts a short bow at the waist. “Want me to tuck you into bed?”

Something hot and demanding floods my abdomen. “I’m not going to bed. I’m too keyed up to sleep.”

“Executioners can take a lesson from your chairs. Off to the bedroom where my back won’t be so agonized.”

Before I get a peep out, Wren gathers Audra off the couch with a delicate reverence. Muscles clench, and the bold lines of the Perthro tattoo stand out against his creamy skin.

Bedroom. Bad idea.

The two mattresses squeezed into a single room used to embarrass me. Mom did a better job of taking care of us than I do. At least then we had two separate bedrooms most of the time.