He rounds the bed, approaching in unhurried strides. I scramble backward, trying to maintain some distance, but there is nowhere to go—my shoulder blades hit the headboard. I press my spine flat against it as Penn sits, his weight depressing the mattress, and slowly unfurls his long limbs into a reposed position atop the blankets. His head dents the pillow beside mine as his lids slide shut.
For a moment, it is silent. I sit there, pressed against the headboard, staring at the man lying inches away. His bare feet are crossed at the ankles. The back of his arm is thrown across his eyes to shield them from the moonlight.
“Either stab me with that dagger or put it on the nightstand,” he mutters. “At this point, I really don’t care which.”
I jolt in surprise, staring down at my hand. I’d completely forgotten about the dagger, but sure enough, its hilt is still clutched in my grip, my fingertips pale from lack of circulation.
Throat working to swallow the lump of nerves lodged there, I reach over and set the weapon down with a light metallic clink. My fingers tingle as blood begins flowing once more. When I look back at Penn, he is in the same position—ankles crossed, arm over his eyes—as if completely unconcerned that I could gut him in his sleep. His breathing is level, chest rising and falling in even beats. His mouth is slack, slightly parted. His lips seem fuller in the absence of the stern frown he wears most often when looking my way.
Can he be asleep already?
A faint crease mars his forehead, furrowing his brows together. I wonder whether he is in a great amount of pain from the wound in his shoulder but do not ask, loath to let such an opportunity slip away. To study him without his knowledge is perilously rare. He is always on his guard, his gaze seeing everything at once, no detail too minute to escape his notice. Even now, with his eyes closed, there is a part of me that feels he is watching somehow, his perception so sharp he does not need to look at me to see me.
I force my eyes away from his face.
Despite my deep exhaustion, I doubt I’ll be able to sleep. Not after everything he’s told me. Certainly not with him lying next to me.
It is not a large bed, and he is a very large man.
Heart in my throat, I slide as far to my side of the mattress as I can manage without tumbling to the floor, turn my back firmly in his direction, and curl into a ball—knees to my chest, arms looped around them. I hug myself tight as I stare into the dark, my thoughts chasing one another across my mind like a dog after its own tail.
I think about birthrights and strange winds, Remnant marks and metal helms. About fallen bridges and screaming soldiers,red-plumed arrows and bleeding wounds. About milky eyes and serrated mandibles, viridescent goo and snapped bones. About the Northlands and what awaits me there. Most of all, I think about the strange bedfellow beside me, his breaths a steady harmony to the melody of worries clanging around inside my head.
Somehow, lulled by that strange song, I drift off to sleep.
Chapter
Thirteen
The next time the door opens, it does so with a crash instead of a creak. Jac’s broad shoulders fill the frame, silhouetted by the light of the candles flickering in the hallway sconces.
“Reavers,” he clips, urgency bursting from the word’s every syllable.
“Fuck!” is Penn’s only reply.
He rolls me off his chest and unwinds my arm from where it is wrapped around his waist—for, to my utter horror, in sleep I have pressed my body tight along the length of his side, seeking out warmth like a cat curled up before a winter hearth. There’s no time to be properly mortified by my unconscious actions. Penn is already out of bed, pulling on his boots before I’ve even worked my way out from beneath the blankets.
Cheeks aflame, I vault from the mattress, stumbling over the long fabric of the nightgown in my haste. I’d have cracked my head open on the dressing table had Penn not materialized from the shadows in front of me. He steadies me with one hand while his other snatches my gown from the wall hook where Marta left it earlier.
“Get dressed. You have two minutes until your ass is in a saddle.”
“But—”
“Two minutes.”
The door slams and he is gone. With no other choice, I blink away the film of sleep, slip off my nightgown, and struggle into my shift and red muslin. I’ve barely gotten the sash belted at my hips when the door swings inward again. I tense, expecting Penn, but it is Edwynna. Her hair is a bit wild, the gray-streaked mane frizzing beneath a sleep bonnet, but her eyes are focused as she bustles into the chamber.
“Here,” she says, shoving a pair of thin calfskin boots into my hands. “Put these on.”
I don’t question her. I bend and jerk the boots on over my thick-knitted stockings, grateful to find them a far closer fit than Farley’s. The laces are scarcely tied when Edwynna tugs me up and whips a white cloak over my shoulders. It is lined with arctic fox fur at the collar and cuffs.
“This was my niece’s,” she tells me, her hands working at the brass neck clasps. “She left it behind when she moved to Llyr last spring. No need for fur in Hylios, that’s for sure.”
“I couldn’t possibly—”
“You can and you will.” She grips my shoulders. “Now, go. Your men will already have their horses saddled. You make them wait much longer, they’ll shout my whole inn awake.”
“Thank you, Edwynna,” I say, popping up onto my toes to press a quick kiss to her cheek. “For everything.”