Page 88 of The Iron Flower

It isn’t long before Yvan returns. I’m lying on the bed, the brown woolen blanket wrapped around myself, chilled to the bone and half-asleep. Hearing his knock, I rouse myself, let him in, then sink back down onto the bed, exhausted.

Yvan kneels down by the fireplace and arranges the sticks and logs he’s gathered. In mere moments, there’s a roaring fire blazing in the hearth, but its warmth isn’t able to fully chase away the chill in the drafty room. Yvan stands up, brushes his hands off on his trousers and looks around awkwardly. “You can sleep on the bed tonight,” he offers. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

I stare at him in disbelief. “Yvan, it’s a muddied stone floor.”

“It’s all right,” he assures me, looking down uncertainly.

“If you want to...” I begin hesitantly, “share the bed with me tonight...”

“No!” he says with surprising vehemence.

A sting of warmth heats my face. “I... I didn’t mean...”

“I know,” he says quickly, looking around the room. At anything but me.

“I only meant—”

“It’s all right,” he insists, his eyes shifting to his feet. Perhaps realizing how stern he sounds, Yvan sighs, and seems to make a conscious effort to soften his expression and his tone. “Thank you,” he says. “I know what you meant, Elloren. But I really will be fine on the floor.”

“I know that sleeping in the same bed is...inappropriate,” I rattle on, shivering from the cold and nerves. “But no one would need to know. And...you’re always so warm.”

Yvan looks me over, seeming chastened as he takes in how I’m shivering. “Of course. I should have noticed how cold you are. I don’t feel the cold, so...” He catches himself and eyes me sidelong.

I hold his gaze, surprised by his open admission. Yvan suddenly looks as tense and worn-out as I feel. He eyes the bed covetously. “Itwouldbe nice to lie down, even for a moment,” he admits.

I lie down on the bed and make room for him, my heartbeat deepening. Yvan sits down on the edge of the bed and gives me a small, awkward smile over his shoulder, leaning forward to remove his boots. Then he lies down beside me and stretches his long body out on the mattress with a sigh.

His arm brushes against mine, and it’s deliciously warm. Almost hot. I breathe in deeply, my shivering quickly lessening as he releases some of his fire, his heat radiating through my lines in a rippling caress. It’s strange and brazen, lying there in a bed next to him, but so wonderful.

“You don’t have to hold your fire back,” I tell him, fatigue making me bold. “I can feel you holding it back almost all the time now, and...I sense it’s a strain.”

His lips turn up in a jaded smile, and then his gaze darkens. “Trust me, Elloren, I have to hold it back.” His smile disappears, his fire giving a turbulent flare.

I wonder what he means by that, but he doesn’t seem willing to elaborate further, so I don’t ask.

The draftiness of the room has stirred up a slight breeze, and the cobwebs hanging from the rafters above sway lazily from side to side.

“Yvan?” I ask, tentative.

He turns his head to look at me. “Hmm?”

It’s hard to get the words out. “When did your father die?”

“When I was three,” he tells me.

“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice barely a whisper. “I’m sorry that happened.”

He gives a slight shake of his head and glances over at me, the normally sharp planes of his face softened by the lamplight. “It’s not your fault.” He considers me for a moment. “When did your parents die?”

“I was also three.”The year my grandmother died, as well.“Do you remember your father?”

Yvan exhales sharply, his eyes tensing with sadness. “Yes.” He turns to face me, a rush of his heat suffusing me. I suddenly long to move into that warmth and let it fully overtake me. To be encircled by his arms and his fire.

“I remember my parents, too,” I say, basking in his heat. “Especially my mother. She used to wrap me up in the quilt she made me...”

“The one Ariel burned,” he says quietly, regret in his eyes.

“Yes.”

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