I sit on the edge of the mattress. “Are you sleeping with a full set of cutlery or just the knife?”
“Don’t have a sword,” he mumbles, like that explains it. “Come back to bed.”
“I wasn’t in bed.”
“Don’t be a dick.”
I take off my jacket and waistcoat—the same thing I was wearing yesterday, maybe I should leave some clothes in Oxford—and look over my shoulder at Simon. He’s tucked himself into a knot under the blanket and buried his face in his pillow. His hair is curling in every direction. Big, fat curls. He must have gone to sleep with it wet.
I look down at my shoes and quickly unlace them. I take off my socks and my trousers, my button-down shirt, and—after a second of deliberation—my T-shirt. It feels strange to get undressed without anyone requesting it or giving me permission. I suppose I’m requesting it. I’m the one who wants it.
I get under the blanket. Snow reaches out to me and pulls me against him.
He’s still sleep-warm. I feel his tail sliding over my thigh. We’re face-to-face, but he’s not looking in my eyes.
“Don’t be angry with me yet,” he whispers. His breath smells rotten.
Maybe if he were someone else, I’d mind.
“When do I get to be angry?” I ask.
He knocks his forehead against mine, still looking down. “Later.”
“All right,” I whisper.
He brings his hand up, catches his thumb on my bottom lip. “You’re pink.”
“Breakfast,” I say.
He rubs my lip roughly against my teeth. My jaw goes slack.
Simon glances up, into my eyes, and then rubs my lip again, more gently. I shiver.
I touch his side, his skin, his ribs. He thinks he’s fat—he isn’t. He just isn’t a starving teenager anymore. He’s solid and stalwart. And so warm …
His skin feels different when he’s been sleeping, I don’t understand why.
Thicker somehow, more lush. I move my hand to the small of his back, just above his tail, and pull him closer—he grimaces.
I lift my hand away. “Are you injured?”
Snow shrugs. “A bit. My wing’s cut up. From the glass in the Chapel. I have to heal the old-fashioned way.”
I kiss his cheek, quickly. “What can I do?”
“Can you…” He pushes me onto my back （I let him） and rolls partly on top of me. It frees up his wings, and he relaxes them, half spread, above us.
“Thanks.”
I reach up to pet the edge of one wing. It twitches.
“Does that hurt?” I ask.
“No, it…” He wrinkles his nose, like he isn’t sure. “No—it’s sensitive; it doesn’t hurt. The cuts are farther back.”
I go on, rubbing the bony ridge of his wing. It’s kid-glove soft and warm like the rest of him.
Simon relaxes into me, nuzzling his face in my cheek.
I’m going to miss these wings. This tail. I won’t tell him so—I don’t blame him for wanting them gone. But I love them now the way I love every part of him. I get my other arm around him, and rub his other wing, too. He groans into my neck.
“Okay?” I ask.
He nods. After a minute, he mumbles, “Do you feel like you’re in bed with a dragon?”
“Not in a bad way,” I whisper, feeling the thick cords that run through the top of his wings. （Simon Snow has muscles no one else does.） “Do you feel like you’re in bed with a vampire?”
“Yes,” he says. Then laughs.
I move my hands down to his sides, where it’s safe to pinch him.
“Ouch,” he laughs. “I’m injured.”
I pinch him again, just above his waistband.
He’s still laughing. He tries to push my arms away. “Ouch. Stop. I meant —‘not in a bad way.’”
“There’s no good way to be in bed with a vampire.”
“I beg to differ,” he says, biting my neck. “It’s only been good so far.”
I close my eyes and push my face into the side of Simon’s head. I want that to be true. I want it to stay true.
“I’m sorry I lied to you,” he whispers.
I wrap my arms around his waist. “Promise me you won’t do it again.”
“No.”
“Snowww, ” I groan. “I thought you didn’t want me to be angry right now.”
Simon lifts himself up, rests on his side, on his elbow, and takes my face in both hands. “I think I made the right decision. To protect you and Penny.”