Page 52 of Blood of Wolves

He hadn’t braided his hair yet, she couldn’t help but notice, insides shivering pleasantly. Hadn’t done it sloppily himself, nor asked his mother to do it. Later, when they went inside, she would do it herself; rub fragrant oil through it with her fingertips, and lace the strands in intricate patterns – knot the ends with lover’s beads.

I wanted to be useful, she thought to say, though she knew he would argue against that.We’ve talked about that, and they had, extensively. An old reflex, an instinct toward politeness, for helpfulness.

Instead, she found herself mirroring his head tilt, his smile, and saying, “Estrid’s a surprisingly helpful teacher.”

His brows lifted. “It isn’t that she isn’t skilled. She’s just…” His nose wrinkled. “Insufferable.”

Tessa laughed. “Not as much as I first thought. She’s just…Northern.”

“Or…insufferable.”

She plucked at his cloak, before she could check the impulse. “She’s being rather helpful, actually.”

He feigned intense shock.

She rolled her eyes. “I think it helped making it clear to her that I wasn’t betrothed to Leif.”

“Ah. Well. That makes sense.”

A sharp gust funneled between them, lifting snow crystals, snatching at the hems of their cloaks. Rune took a step and closed the distance between them; reached to pull the halves of her cloak snug beneath her chin, the backs of his bare hands warm as they skimmed along her jaw in the process.

Tessa shivered, and it had nothing to do with the cold.

“Why didn’t you ask me, if you wanted to learn?” he asked, curious rather than hurt.

“It started by accident, really. I came down to practice, but there were so many people already in the yard, and then Estrid volunteered to teach me. So…” She shrugged. “I wasn’t trying to keep it a secret. But I didn’t want to bother you while you were–”

“Don’t say ‘recovering,’” he said on a theatrical groan. “I’m so bloodytiredof recovering.

“I know.” He still held her cloak, large hands bundled up beneath her chin, and she reached to curl her fingers around his wrist. Touching like this, innocently, wasn’t new anymore, but it still left her chest fluttering. Left her wanting more. They were supposed to wait – supposed to make an announcement, and have a proper wedding. Supposed to wait out whatever was to happen with the Sels, and give Leif a chance to come home, to tell him in person what she’d decided – and give Rune the opportunity to apologize and ask for his brother’s blessing.

But touching him, even like this, made the waiting sohard.

And not just for her, if the way his pupils expanded, and his breath came quicker was any indication.

His voice had lowered a notch, roughened a fraction when he said, “I could help you. Since I’m here.”

She felt the quickened thump of his pulse against her thumb, where it pressed to the tender inside of his wrist. Her own voice came out a touch breathless. “That would be” – she swallowed – “nice. But. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

His smile this time was slight, and soft, and turned her insides to jelly, eyes bright with affection, lightly teasing, incredibly fond. “You could never hurt me, Tess.”

That wasn’t what she’d meant at all, but she let him tow her forward, so he could slot himself at her back, cage her in safely with his arms, and show her how to use his weapon of choice.

~*~

Revna’s bedchamber had once belonged to her grandmother: an airy space with a wide hearth and plenty of windows, one of which was fixed in a curved, bow wall, with a padded ledge from which to gaze out upon the gardens. Grandmother had so loved the flowers and paved walkways of the garden, the fountains that trickled in summer and the bright-red leaves of the imported maples in autumn.

Flowers were fine, but Revna had always preferred the view of the training yard, which she could just glimpse beyond the dormant rose hedges. In the pre-dawn dark, it was lit by torches, and orange light puddled over two intertwined figures, the larger giving the smaller an archery lesson that was more about pressing two bodies together than it was about accuracy.

She sighed to herself, from her seat in the window ledge, and remembered what it was like to be a girl; to be so smitten that it was worth pretending she didn’t understand something, just to feel strong arms around her.

Behind her, bedclothes rustled. A deep sigh. A low, sleep-rough voice said, “Come back to bed.”

It wasn’t first light, but the palace was already awake: the fires were lit in the kitchen, maids were toting linens; servants attended to all the hearths. It was time to feed the horses and the livestock; time for the guard shift to change. Doubtless babies stirred in mothers’ arms down in the overcrowded hall, and sleepy children were already inquiring about breakfast. Someone up on the wall was keeping a sharp eye for approaching birds, looking north, in the hopes that their king would return.

There were a thousand things Revna needed to attend to. Dozens of mouths ready with amy lady. Too much to do, and not enough time…

But she climbed from the window seat with one last glance at her son and his betrothed, and went back to bed.

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