Page 66 of A House of Cloaks & Daggers

“You lay a hand on her, and I will have your head severed from the rest of your body,” Wren snarled.

“But—Your—”

“I am in the perfect mood,” he began, with slow and spine-chilling emphasis, “to shatter your jaw…” he continued, cocking his head to the side, “…with my boot.” He narrowed his eyes at the sentry on the ground, a vicious challenge glinting in the gold, and then lifted his chin. He appeared to address the entire clearing, his volume increasing to a boom. “Are weclear? Do you all understand that touching her is suicide, and speaking about her is treason?”

The sentry didn’t speak again. In fact, none of them did. All of them, even their horses, quickly found more interesting things to look at before Wren turned around and stalked towards me, still in an absolute, palpable rage.

Despite the fact that I knew he was talking about me, I felt his warning in the very marrow of my bones and would have cowered if I had the strength. It was as though there was another girl here and I had threatened her.

Maybe he will hit me now.

I tensed, bracing myself for his hands to close around my throat. He would likely be able to snap my neck one-handed.

The blow I was expecting never came. Instead, I was overcome by a completely different but equally shocking sensation as he pulled me into an embrace. Wren held me tightly against his chest, and then there was nothing but wind so intense that I had to close my eyes until…

“Sit down.”

I opened my eyes straight into Wren’s pectorals. It was the same view I’d had when I first met him, only this time, his shirt was stuck to his skin with blood. He let go of me, and an icy shiver skittered across my skin. Swaying, I lost my balance, and he pushed me back into a cushioned armchair.

We were in a room at the House, identifiable by the similarity it bore to my own bedroom with a four-poster bed and the archway blocked by a gossamer curtain leading into a bathroom. It had to be Wren’s bedroom, judging by the mess. Apparently, he treated all of his possessions with disregard, not only the books he kept in the reading nook downstairs.

His bed was unmade, clothes and weapons strewn around the room in no obvious pattern, and his wardrobe doors had been left open.

“Please accept my apologies on behalf of Hanson,” he said, peeling off his shirt. It was ripped and torn, which wasn’t really surprising considering he had single-handedly cut down almost an entire army of iron-taloned monsters. “I’m working off the assumption that you would be physically unwell if I were to have him killed, but if the apology is insufficient, please say so.”

As if.

Wren turned and strode towards the bathroom, tossing the shirt behind the curtain, and I really tried not to stare, but Icouldn’t help it. He had the most beautiful body I had ever seen. It was almost—but not quite—identical to the one in my dreams.

Broad, strong shoulders and arms corded with thick muscle, the tendons and veins in his hands stretched up his forearm like vines. His abdomen was carved with more precision than a statue, a maze of grooves and ridges sharp enough to break a tooth, and dipped down on an angle over his hips, beneath the waistband of his pants.

He walked back to me, and I thanked the High Mother that he was keeping those on.

Wren was a soldier, a warrior. His perfectly smooth, light-kissed skin was flecked with golden scars, whereas Lucais had sleeves of tattoos down his arms, likely markings relating to his royalty. If it wasn’t for the absence of those tattoos on Wren, I could have almost mistaken them. But the High Fae were naturally beautiful and violent, so I imagined they all looked much the same—sculpted to impossible standards. Wren was the most beautiful simply because he was the only one I’d seen so much of in person.

“Are you staring at me because you’re concussed or because you’re wondering if I’ll send you a nude self-portrait if you ask nicely enough?”

“Thank you,” I blurted, my gaze snapping to his face.For reminding me that I don’t like you.

He smirked at me, lowering himself to his knees between my legs.You’re welcome.

I tried to close the space he was sliding into, but it was too late. I should have sat down with my legs crossed.

“You’re going to be the death of me, bookworm,” he muttered absently, reaching up to cup my chin. He tilted my head to the side so he could examine my cheek, which was aching but didn’t feel significantly damaged. “But that’s the hope, isn’t it?”

I clenched my jaw and stared at the far wall.

I couldn’t believe that I’d been willing to let him die, alleged traitor or not, and I had already promised myself I’d never do something like that again. There was no point in admitting any of it to him, though.

“I’m not working with the Malum,” he told me. “But you did well today to refuse me aid.”

“What?” I jerked my head back, out of his grip.

“You thought I was the enemy, so you were prepared to let me die,” he said, angling his face towards mine. “Your enemies in Faerie will take on many different forms and try many different tactics to force you to yield, so that was good.” He reached for my cheek again, but I swatted his hand away, and he growled softly. “Fine. It doesn’t look fractured, anyway.”

“How do you know that?” I snapped. “About the Malum.”

He gave me a wry smile. “I can scent the suspicion on you every time we’re in the same room. It started the night you woke up in the cottage, screaming like a newborn faeling.”

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