Bonesmith (House of the Dead, #1)(74)

TWENTY-FIVE


Julian stared at Wren.

He had been doing that a lot. She was something to look at, in his defense. More so when she was awake, of course.

Those eyes.

That armor.

After spending his entire life hating bonesmiths, it was utterly surreal to walk around with one. To fight alongside one.

To laugh with one, even.

And just when he thought he’d had her figured out, she had shown a level of kindness on that battlefield he hadn’t believed her capable of. Finding a way to honor the fallen when he could not. When all he could do was stumble around, searching and searching and terrified to find what he was looking for.

But she had taken control and taken his hand, and everything had been a little easier.

Placing that marker and walking away had been a soul-deep relief, though his search remained incomplete. Maybe he would never know, like Wren had said.

Maybe the question of what had happened to his father would haunt him, literally, forever.

Wren shifted in her sleep, drawing his attention without his consent, like a moth pulled inescapably to a flame.

He wouldn’t soon forget the look on her face as she’d fallen from that bridge, expression entirely devoid of its usual brazen sarcasm and arrogance. Her fear had been plain, her defenses stripped away, but somehow it was Julian who felt raw. Even now, knowing she was safe—seeing the proof of it before his eyes—was not enough to banish the feeling.

There had been no question of going on without her. No question of leaving her behind.

He knew, distantly, that there should have been.

Maybe if he’d given himself a second to think, he’d have reconsidered chasing after her—or realized what he was risking by doing so. But all he’d been able to focus on was that look on her face and the way he’d feel, every day for the rest of his life, if he didn’t at least try.

How he’d always wonder. How she’d become one more search he couldn’t complete.

How she might die with his name on her lips, thinking that he had done it on purpose. That he had killed her. Or worse, that she’d survive and carry that conviction with her, seeing him as a coward and would-be murderer.

Of course, what she thought of him shouldn’t matter.

But it did.

Wren was everything that was wrong with his world, but she was also the only thing that was right. The only thing that made sense.

Which was why it was so dangerous. He had to stop staring at her. Stop thinking about her.

He couldn’t afford to get caught up, to weaken himself with feelings he couldn’t control, with a wanting he couldn’t shake.

With a trust that might be misplaced.

He pressed a hand against his chest, where Captain Royce’s arrow had landed. His iron had protected his body, but his mind… It was a betrayal he still couldn’t wrap his brain around. The lines that had defined his life were now irrevocably blurred.

The Border Wall demarcated more than just the barrier between his home and the rest of the Dominions. It separated friend from foe.

Or so he’d thought.

Now his supposed enemy was his only friend, and his supposed friends were the ones who had tried to kill him.

Wren rolled over, her spill of pale hair gleaming in the flickering firelight. The flames added warmth to her otherwise ghostly complexion, turning her ivory skin flush, her icy hair warm and golden.

With her eye black mostly gone thanks to the spring, it all served to make her look more human. More… normal.

Strange, then, that he found it so off-putting. That it unsettled him worse than her bone armor and colorless eyes ever had.

He’d actually come to find those attributes a welcome sight. A comforting one. He wanted her fierceness, not this softness on display right now.

But he kept staring all the same.

It was either that or let his mind wander in less pleasant directions. He rubbed at his chest again. The soreness had receded to a dull ache, but he couldn’t allow himself to forget. He pressed harder, awakening the nerves and causing pain to radiate outward.

It was sobering.

And after that wave of clarity came the question, the one he hadn’t been able to answer.

Why?

Everything he’d said to Wren could easily be true. Jealousy was common where Julian was concerned; he was one of only a few remaining ironsmiths alive, powerful and important. To someone ambitious and wanting to climb the ranks, like Captain Royce, Julian could definitely be seen as in the way. The kidnapping mission itself was a perfect example. Julian was sent to “ensure things went smoothly,” undercutting the man’s competence and insinuating he needed the help.

So yes, it made sense that Captain Royce might seize the opportunity to get rid of Julian… and yet it felt a bit too simple. A bit too neat.

But the alternative? Impossible.

Julian wasn’t in the regent’s way.

He’d done everything the man had asked him to do. Everything, all his life.

Things he hated. Things he regretted every waking moment.

He fidgeted with his glove, his skin damp and clammy underneath, but he refused to remove it—despite Wren being asleep.

It was an unwelcome sight even to his own eyes.

At least she had touched his good hand, his right hand, on that battlefield. Otherwise he’d have pulled away and ruined the moment.