Page 120 of Trials of Dusk and Dreams
“Next time, I’ll wrap myself in a sack.”
In three long strides, he’s beside me, taking the brush from my hand. “Excellent idea.”
I grin, playing along. “Maybe I should start wearing Bodin’s old socks. That ought to keep you at a distance.”
“Brilliant,” he deadpans. “And why stop there? A touch of the Wild Hunt’s breath in your hair would add a lovely aroma of sour meat and decay.”
Our eyes meet in the mirror, and for a moment, the playful atmosphere charges with something more intense. I turn to face him, suddenly aware of his closeness.
“You know,” I say softly, “all this talk of hunts and socks . . . it’s kind of hot.”
Legion’s eyes shutter, and he takes a deliberate step back. “We should focus on more practical matters.”
I nod, feeling the loss of his warmth like a physical ache. Helping him keep his vow will be more challenging than I first imagined. He tugs the brush through his long hair, then tosses it onto the rumpled bed with a glare that could wither flowers.
“Right. Practical matters . . . like how I’m going to survive a morning of diplomatic meetings without falling asleep.”
“I’d suggest pinching yourself, but you’d probably enjoy it too much,” he quips.
“You’re probably right.”
For a heartbeat, I think he might close the distance between us. Instead, he clears his throat and orders, “Put your boots on.”
I do as told while he shrugs on his jacket, the fabric whispering as it settles over his broad shoulders. The metamorphosis is immediate. I felt his powerful body against mine last night. It’s not the bulky power like Bodin, but athletic and subtly explosive . . . almost like a dancer. If dancers could punch into a chest cavity and rip out a still-beating heart without breaking a sweat.
“Let’s go,” he says, his voice clipped. “We’re late for breakfast.”
“Wait.” I get serious for a moment. “What’s really happening out there? I want to talk about it before we leave. Why did we go on this expedition?”
His hands slip into his pockets, and he gives me an intelligent, sharp look. “The House of Shadow can impose martial law if danger is imminent.”
“But we’ve seen no Nightmares.”
“And therein lies the rub.”
He yanks the door open with more force than necessary, muttering under his breath about having to “now eat mortal food and pretending to like it.”
Even in his grumpy state, he exudes a potent aura of power and grace. His walk—each step purposeful and controlled—is dangerous but breathtakingly beautiful to watch. Staff scuttle out of his way—some blush and bluster when they look at his face. I know how they feel.
A group of servants round the corner, arms laden with trays of delicate crystal goblets. One young server stumbles upon seeing Legion’s face. Legion pulls me tight against him, shielding me with his body as the servant careens past, barely avoiding a collision.
We’re pressed together for a heartbeat, maybe two. I feel the solid warmth of his chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat betraying his calm exterior. His dark eyes lock with mine. This close, I see flecks of white gold in their depths, like stars in a midnight sky.
As quickly as it happened, he sets me back.
“Are you alright?” he asks, voice rougher than usual.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
Legion turns to the still-trembling servant.
“More care in the future,” he says, tone brooking no argument.
The servant nods frantically before hurrying away, leaving us alone in the quiet hallway. Legion continues walking, but now his posture holds tension.
“You know,” I whisper as we near the Great Hall, “I think I prefer you grumpy. It’s much safer than when you’re being charming.”
He raises a dubious eyebrow. “Perhaps I should practice scowling more often.”
