“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.
Leo had pegged her as a good time—which she absolutely was—and had wanted to associate with her based on that factor alone. In truth, she and Leo were similar, like reflections of each other. But Julian… he and Wren were more like opposites. She was rash and bold, where he was thoughtful and strategic. She liked to laugh, to find the humor in situations, no matter how dark. He took things seriously, treating even those who meant him harm with respect.
They didn’t reflect one another, but rather, seemed to round each other out. Like puzzle pieces fitting together.
Julian’s expression was shuttering, his emotions closing off, and Wren realized she had yet to respond. He had bared something to her, bared himself and his desires, and she had not reciprocated. She was naked, but it was not the same thing.
He was so close, she could see the way his pulse jumped in his throat, and she would bet Ghostbane twice over that he was desperate to unsay his words, to take it all back—it’s what she would have wanted to do. But he didn’t. He stood by them, even if it was killing him to do so.
“Can you swim?” she whispered.
“What?” he asked, taken aback. “Yes.”
Before she could think better of it, she took hold of his wrist and pulled.
His eyes bugged out before he came diving, headfirst, into the water.
Wren shoved herself backward, waiting until he emerged, shocked and spluttering. He tossed his head to get his hair out of his eyes, turning in place until he located her. The surprise on his face shifted—not into anger but into something fierce and competitive.
He lunged for her, and Wren cried out, kicking off the side to push herself out of reach and diving under. She made for the open door, swimming out into the wider spring. She came up for air, Julian surfacing behind her a second later. The rain was still coming down in sheets, trickling off the rocks above and dousing them like they were under a waterfall.
He shook away his hair again and pushed forward to cut off her retreat.
Wren shrieked, spinning around, but she was trapped against the rocky shore. He approached slowly now, knowing he had her, smiling triumphantly. The sight of it made her already tight stomach constrict even further.
“You’re going to pay for that,” he said, planting his hands on either side of her, caging her in.
It was hard to swim without kicking him, and Wren struggled with warring emotions. She wanted to fight, to laugh, to demand that he make her in one breath, then beg him if he didn’t in the next.
They were close now, so close, and the intense, mischievous glint in Julian’s eye turned wary. Uncertain.
“I don’t want to finish this without you either,” Wren said quietly, feeling like she was flayed open.
His expression softened at her words, and his attention fell to Wren’s mouth again. His gaze was heated, intense, and then he reached out with a tentative hand. His thumb landed on the edge of her bottom lip, dragging against the skin. Did some of the eye black remain, or had he wanted to touch her skin, bared to him at last?
She wondered if she looked more appealing to him this way, without the obvious markings of a bonesmith. Or less? Was the draw between them the thrill of the enemy? Of the unknown? Or was it something else? Something… more?
In response to his touch, Wren’s tongue shot out, following the path his thumb had traced. He watched it, his expression hungry, and she couldn’t hold back any longer.
She pushed off the rock behind her, crashing into him, legs wrapping around his middle and fingers raking through his hair.
Her lips met his, soft and smooth and the tiniest bit salty with spring water.
Though she had made the first move, he met her with enthusiasm, and when their mouths opened, it was his tongue sliding into her mouth, deepening the kiss. Warmth suffused her skin, spreading from the point of contact, making her face flush.
His hands splayed on her back, unmoving at first, then with a soft growl sliding lower. He clutched her, dragged her against him, resisting the ebb and flow of the water and creating a rhythm entirely their own. Wren’s lips burned, glittering heat sweeping her body. And his mouth… Wren wanted to devour him. She dove into the kiss, biting and teasing and drawing him closer, closer, closer.