Page 32 of Lana Pecherczyk
River jerked away and snarled, “No touchy-touchy.”
Ada exhaled, her shoulders dropping. “The touching part of this healing process would be over if you’d let me examine you outside, where you can stretch properly.”
“Can’t.” That teasing drawl was back. “Everyone will see my naked ass and want a piece.”
“As if you care, Mr. Streaking Through the Order Campus Every Other Night.”
His baritone chuckle vibrated through the air, making Blake’s stomach flutter traitorously.
“Besides,” Ada continued, “you can put on your pants.”
“Aww. So soon?”
“I’m done inspecting your legs.”
“I’m not doing this outside, so forget it.”
“Fine. But … your stubbornness is not helping your feathers grow back.” As Ada continued inspecting his wings, their conversation turned to how River wanted to borrow an item from the royal coffers for a special trade. Then he’d be out of Ada’s hair regardless of whether someone called Ash decided to show his “owl-shit” face.
“He’s not mentioned it, has he?” River asked.
“Who, Jasper? No.”
River continued rattling on about particular items the king might have lying around because he didn’t think there was anything here the Collector would want. When Ada bent to inspect a portion of his lower wing, Blake noticed great clumps of feathers missing in sections. Bare skin stretched over bones in patches, pale pink against the darkness of his remaining plumage. The sight triggered an instinctive need to touch, to fix, to understand what was broken.
She must have gasped again because they both glanced over.
River’s scowl returned in full force, but Ada’s face lit up.
“Great timing!” she exclaimed. “Blake, come here. I need help getting under there and comparing the regrowth to how it was at my last examination.”
“Me?” she squeaked.
“Her?” River growled.
Ada’s flat look landed on him. “Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you didn’t even know she was standing there.”
“Told you, I’m shutting it down.” His blue-marked hand swiped the air before him, dismissive.
“Doubt it. You flexed way more than usual.” Before he could retort, Ada raised her voice. “River. You refuse to let me touch your wings because, apparently, only a crow’s wingmate has the right. Well, now you have one. So suck it up, buttercup, and let me examine you properly, or you can deal with your molting problem yourself.”
He stilled, and a ripple of tension filled the air.
Ada made a comical “oops” face at Blake, as if she’d poked the bird too much.
While River brooded at the wall, his back to them, Ada held Blake’s stare and silently counted on her fingers. One. Two. Three.
River glanced over his shoulder at Blake, stormy eyes showering her with cold contemplation for a long, hard minute. Then he slid off the bed and collected his discarded leather pants, using his patchy wings to cover his nakedness. Once dressed, he repositioned himself on the bed and faced the wall again without another word, shoulders rigid with unspoken emotion.
“Okay.” Ada smiled. “I suppose that’s permission granted. Your help would be greatly appreciated, Blake.” She poked River in the temple. “Right, McGrumpy?”
He flinched away, annoyed, but his eyes remained glued to the wall. If his turmoil of emotions weren’t slipping through their bond—frustration, embarrassment, and something deeper that felt like shame—Blake might have told him to take a long walk off a short pier. But she couldn’t resist the Grey’s reference.
“He’s definitely not a McDreamy,” she offered, walking over.
Ada gasped and touched her chest. “You watched Grey’s?”
A warmth spread throughout Blake’s body, and her first genuine smile in days stretched her lips. “Religiously. What do you need me to do?”
