Bonesmith (House of the Dead, #1)(76)

“Maybe we should have stayed dry and cold instead of wet and cold,” Wren mused as they attempted to rebuild their fire.

Julian gave her a flat look, as if to suggest her comments were not helpful—which she supposed they weren’t—and returned his attention to the flickering flames. He had already removed his armor and jacket, but even his undershirt was soaked through and clinging to his back.

They were both filthy, their hands covered in mud and muck, and while most of Wren’s eye black had been washed away in the spring, she still had old blood in her hair.

The fire caught, and though the damp wood smoked, the old embers smoldered hotly, and Wren knew the rest would burn.

Julian sat back on his heels, pleased, and looked at her.

“Why did you come back?” she asked abruptly. “That fall… those revenants… I was a goner.”

“But you weren’t, were you?” She looked at him, brows raised, and he turned away. “I had to know.”

She thought of his father, of the hundreds of other people he might have known and loved and lost to the Breach, never completely dead, never fully at peace. If he had found her dead body, what would he have done?

“It was an accident,” he said, and Wren frowned in confusion. “The whip.”

His expression was strained, and she realized he’d been dying to say this—probably since the moment he’d found her.

“I know,” she said, somewhat incredulously, though she supposed if something similar had happened at the start of their journey, she might have wondered. The fact was, the idea had never crossed her mind. Whatever she might think about the House of Iron and their plans east of the Wall, she didn’t believe Julian capable of looking her straight in the eye and dropping her deliberately to her death.

But his words caused something heavy to settle in Wren’s chest. “Is that why you’re here? To prove you didn’t try to kill me? To clear the air?”

“No,” he said carefully, not meeting her eye. “Not entirely.”

“Then why?”

Wren wasn’t certain what she was hoping for, but as the seconds passed without a response, she decided she didn’t want whatever evasion he was contriving.

“I’m going to clean up,” she announced, standing. “And I need to dry my clothes again.”

Understanding dawned, and Julian glanced down at himself, at his sodden clothes and grimy gloves. There was a smear of dirt on his face that Wren had been staring at since they’d returned, the filth marring his otherwise perfect, pale skin.

“I’ll take my time so you can clean up too, if you want.”

Wren didn’t know why she offered him that kindness, not when he was currently annoying her for reasons she couldn’t explain. But while his reaction—or lack thereof—to her nakedness was one thing, his reaction to his own was something else. He never removed his gloves or his shirt, not even when threatened with deathrot, so there was something going on, though she couldn’t imagine what it was. Wren had plastered herself against him on several occasions now, and he definitely had no cause for concern regarding his physique. Whatever his issues, he wasn’t averse to bathing, so Wren would give him the privacy he needed.

“Right,” he said, standing too. Then Wren started undoing her shirt, and he turned away. “Right.”

She tugged down her pants and kicked off her boots, willing him to look at her like he had the night before when he’d turned all his attention and focus on cleaning her wound.

But he didn’t.

She struggled less with the heavy, wet fabric than before and did her best to lay them out rather than leave them in a sodden heap. All the while, Julian stared fixedly at the far wall, as distant and untouchable as ever.

Wren waded into the water, walking down the slippery steps until she was covered to her chest. She turned, but Julian hadn’t moved.

Disappointed, she was about to fully submerge herself when he spoke.

“I need you.”

Wren startled at the words, unable to help a suspicious furrow of her brow. He watched her from the corner of his eye. Seeing that she was covered by the water, he fully faced her.

“You have my sword, and you’ve faced more revenants than any bonesmith born in the last two decades,” Wren argued. “You don’t need me.”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he looked at her—really looked at her, like he had the night before. Staring first at her eyes and her lips and then lower, down, into the water. The spring was milky and translucent, thanks to the rich mineral content and the darkness, which meant he couldn’t see much. But he was looking.

His eyes were hooded, irises as black as his pupils, the expression in them making her stomach tighten.

“Want, then,” he said softly.

Wren’s lips parted, but she had no response.

He walked toward her, gaze never wavering. When his boots reached the edge, he crouched, his gloved hand planting between them for balance. He took a breath.

“I don’t want to finish this crossing without you,” he continued, voice low. “We—you and I—we’re good together.”

Wren swallowed. He was saying things Wren never expected anyone to say to her, to be honest, and least of all him. It seemed to be costing him something to say it, and as much as Wren wanted to gloat or throw it in his face to embarrass him, what she really wanted was for it to be true. She had never been chosen before, and certainly not by someone who had seen all her faults and shortcomings firsthand.