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.
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.
He sighed, securing his glove and dropping his hand.
No, it couldn’t be the regent.
Because if it were, the threads that held Julian’s life together would start to come undone, and he was already wound too tight. One loose strand, and everything would fall apart.