Bonesmith (House of the Dead, #1)(73)

He froze, and his gaze—until then focused intently on his hands and his hands alone—rose hesitantly to meet hers. His face was inches away, his usually smoothed-back hair coming undone, a single forelock dangling across his brow.

She met his eyes and nodded. He understood. He withdrew with almost comical speed, though Wren didn’t feel much like laughing. She pulled off her shirt and tugged down her pants, all while Julian’s back faced her. He was bent over, messing with the fire again—surely he was doing more harm than good at this point—and he stayed that way until the sound of Wren’s sodden pants slapping onto the ground announced that she was fully naked.

He straightened, turning his head a fraction of an inch.

“Finished,” Wren said, stepping toward him—barefoot after kicking off her boots—and putting a hand on his shoulder. As usual, he tensed under her touch.

“Here,” he said, barely above a whisper—and without turning around. He held up one of the blankets from his pack, rough but dry and large enough to wrap her from head to toe.

She flung it around her shoulders and relished the wave of warmth that enveloped her. She just stood there, swaying on her feet, her eyes drifting closed again….

“Can you eat?” Julian said, his voice very far away. “We have—Wren.”

She jolted awake to find him watching her with an expression she would have described as fond if it weren’t on him. As it was, she thought maybe he was amused at her falling asleep standing, like a horse.

She decided to blow out her lips in imitation of one, and it seemed to alarm him more than her giddy laughter had out in the cavern. He pulled a scrap of cloth from somewhere and dabbed at the spot near her temple where he’d found blood before.

“Not too deep,” he muttered. “Come sit—here, on this other blanket, so I can see to it.”

Wren obeyed, sitting patiently as he dipped the rag in the spring water and proceeded to clean the cut. It was unnerving to have Julian’s complete and total focus. His face was so close, his eyes so bright and intent, that it made her stomach clench.

It seemed the cut had stopped bleeding, and once he’d dabbed away the worst of it, he left the wound uncovered.

“They talk to me, you know,” she said. He met her gaze, brow furrowed in confusion. “The revenants. They talk to me…. They’ve been talking to me. Ever since we got here.”

He turned away, squeezing out the blood-soaked rag. “I’ve never… I didn’t know that was possible.”

“Neither did I,” she admitted. It made her think, uneasily, of the battlefield, of the “Graven heir” story Julian had told her. Nothing made sense anymore, and it seemed the rules no longer applied—to bonesmiths or to the undead. Or maybe Wren wasn’t as well informed as she’d always believed. There was magic here—more magic than in the world above. It made things that shouldn’t be possible, possible.

She thought she’d been sitting, but the next thing she knew, she was on her side, face pressed into the cold stone floor of the cave, and Julian was shaking her gently.

She attempted to lurch upright, forgetting for a moment where she was, her brain scrambling through the bridge, the fall—the revenants—but Julian pushed her back down.

“Easy,” he said. “You’re safe.”

Wren blinked at him for several frantic moments, then nodded. Strange to think that being alone with him, an ironsmith, in the Breach, was as safe as Wren had been in days… but it was true.

The fire was crackling merrily now, bathing the room in a warm, welcoming glow. Her clothes were laid out, her boots propped up next to the flames, drying under its steady heat. Julian’s armor was also removed and leaning against the wall.

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” he explained, pointing at her head, and she realized that he feared she was badly concussed… that if she slept too long, she might never wake up.

Wren really looked at him then and saw that despite removing his iron plate, he still wore his damp clothes and had been sitting on the ground. Wren had stolen all their blankets—at least, those that weren’t currently sitting soggy and submerged at the bottom of the spring.

His boots were off, though, piled next to hers, and Wren caught a glimpse of his bare feet. They were pale, well formed—ordinary—but the sight of them sent an illicit thrill down her spine, especially extended as they were toward the fire, his posture more casual than usual. Maybe it was the lowering of his guard she found so appealing, but whatever it was, she wanted more of it.

She carefully stood—waving away Julian’s offer of help—then gathered the blanket from beneath her and held it out.

“It’s a little wet, but dryer than what you’re wearing,” she said.

“I’m fine,” he insisted, and Wren glared at him.

“Humor me,” she said, tossing the blanket at him. He caught it, then after a pointed look, wrapped it around himself—even his feet.

Satisfied, Wren settled down next to him again.

A log cracked in the fire sometime later, and she blinked awake. She was close to the warmth of the flames, and Julian was beside her—wrapped tightly in his blanket. Across the floor, his jacket was lying out to dry along with his pants.

She smirked at him, then closed her eyes once more.