Bonesmith (House of the Dead, #1)(57)

She tugged his coat more tightly around his shoulders, securing it—but she didn’t fasten the buttons.

Instead, she turned to her own.

Julian’s expression was soft with temporary relief, his eyes closed as he leaned against the wall—until he heard the first button on Wren’s coat pop.

“What are you doing?” he demanded, standing upright, his eyes wide open once more.

“Do you want to lose your hand?” she snapped. Bending over their bags, she unearthed a blanket and spread it across the cold floor, shoving him down so he was lying on his side, staring up at her as she proceeded to undo her jacket, the cold air creeping in against her shirt.

Rather than protest outright, Julian gave her a weird smile, as if he’d thought of something funny. “No,” he murmured, eyes fluttering closed again. “No, I do not.”

“Then shut up and count yourself lucky. It usually takes at least a few drinks and some pretty words to get this close to me.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

He was not entirely wrong. Wren had tumbled around with boys, with or without the drinks—and with or without the pretty words.

“Are you saying I’m easy?” she asked.

He huffed. “I’m saying you have no interest in pretty words.”

For some reason, that statement made Wren’s throat tighten. “It’s a good thing, too, since I haven’t gotten a civil one from you since we met.”

“I’m not in the habit of lying.”

Wren scowled—not that he saw—and removed her coat. “Good. Then I don’t want to hear you complain about this.”

“Complain about—” Wren lay down beside him, and he gasped as she slipped inside his open jacket and pressed herself against his crossed arms, enveloping him in what was essentially a hug, her hands sliding under his jacket to meet around his back. Her coat, still clinging to her shoulders, fit under his, creating a barrier to keep the heat in, just as his did for him.

Julian went instantly rigid, spine straightening and pulling away from her.

“Stop it,” she murmured, her mouth landing somewhere in the space near his collarbone. She tightened her grip on his back, waiting for the chill of her intrusion to dissipate, for heat to build between them.

It didn’t take long. Silent, tense seconds turned into languid ones, each muscle in Julian’s back unlocking beneath her hands. She rubbed up and down tentatively, creating more heat, while his hand—which had been cold against Wren’s chest—started to steadily warm.

His breathing went from shallow and tight to deep and slow. His cheek lowered, propping itself on the top of Wren’s head.

“Sleep,” Wren ordered. He needed to gather his strength, and there was no better way.

He muttered something into her hair.

“What?” she asked, tilting her head slightly.

“Thank you.”





TWENTY


Wren remained wrapped up in Julian for an hour at least, waiting until every twitch and tremble receded, his muscles heavy and his chest rising and falling in the rhythms of deepest sleep.

He had rolled over slightly, taking Wren with him, so she was essentially sprawled on top of him. She squinted toward the hatch, anxiously looking for the telltale glow of the undead, but all was darkness. Her breath misted before her, but she remained warm in the ironsmith’s embrace.

His eyes were closed, his brow furrowed slightly. She drew back carefully, watching his face as she did, but he didn’t wake. His skin was dry, with a healthy flush of color—not pale or clammy with cold sweat like it had been before.

She looked at his arms, still crossed against his chest, and pulled one of her hands from behind his back to touch his skin through his shirt. Even though she’d prefer to actually see the lack of deathrot than just assume it, peeking when he was unconscious was a line she didn’t intend to cross. Besides, she felt only the warmth of healthy skin beneath her hand, and if the rot had started, he would be in excruciating pain at her touch.

Expelling a relieved breath, she slid her other arm out—it had fallen asleep—shaking it as she extricated herself. His frown deepened at her departure, as if unhappy with the sudden space between them, and the incongruous sight of it wormed its way into Wren’s chest. Of course he was sleeping, and how he actually felt was the exact opposite. He’d never wanted her so close to him to begin with.

Going to their packs, she unearthed the rest of their blankets and piled them on top of him. She thought again of a fire, but even if she could manage to create something that didn’t burn the place down, it would only draw attention to them. There were more than undead threats in the Breachlands, as their run-in with the bandits the day before had proven.

They had gotten extremely lucky finding this place. She didn’t know how much farther Julian could have run, and despite how much she liked to brag about her skill, Wren would have had a difficult time protecting them against a handful of tier fives. She could have tried a defensive ring, using bonedust to enclose them in safety, but even at Marrow Hall they had warned that revenants had a certain resistance to its effects. The remnants of their bodies protected their ghost and could allow them to pass through a bonedust ring or at least reach beyond its barriers. Ideally, that’s when Julian’s iron sword would come in handy, and really, the pair of them might make the perfect team against these walking undead, if they could only find a way to work together properly.