Page 24 of Embers of Midnight
“Depends.” Wow, my voice sounds like I gargled gravel. “Do you come bearing pants?”
A beat. Almost a huff of a laugh. “Yes. And tea.”
“Then enter, ambassador.”
The flap lifts. Darian fills the opening without crowding it. He keeps his gaze on my face and his hands in clear view—one with a steaming enamel mug, the other balancing a folded stack of dark clothes. There’s a grace to the way he moves that makes me think of expensive knives and old books. His expression is focused, not soft; it lands like a blanket anyway.
“Good morning. You’re safe. Take your time.”
He steps just inside and sets the bundle on a crate. The tea goes beside it. His eyes flick to the coat—recognition, not appraisal—and back to me.
“Thank you,” I manage.
A small nod. “I’ll wait outside while you change. The others are at the fire. Food when you’re ready.”
“Any chance the food is… I don’t know, everything?”
“Close.” It should be smug. It lands like reassurance.
He ducks out. The tent breathes cooler for a second, then settles. I stare at the clothes like they might bite, then reach for the tea first. The mug scorches my palms in a good way. Steam curls into my face. The first sip is herbal and honest. It untangles something low in my chest, and my shoulders sag as if they were never mine to carry.
He’s carrying tea like it’s a peace treaty. I might sign.
The folded stack is simple: soft leggings, a long-sleeved shirt, thick socks. They smell like woodsmoke and nothing else. I shift under the coat, unbelting as little as I can, and get dressed in the kind of careful hurry that belongs to public restrooms and lockers you don’t fully trust. The shirt glides over my skin like a promise. The socks are criminally warm. The coat ends up on my shoulders again because I’m not ready to give it back. Not when the lining holds heat like memory.
My hair is a lost cause. I finger-comb it until it’s less like a bird’s unfinished nest and more like something vaguely human, then square up to the flap.
Outside hits with a wash of cold air and the full smell of breakfast. We’re in a small clearing ringed by trees so tall the wind has to climb to get over them. Snow clings in patches where the light doesn’t bully it. The fire is the center, all crackle and comfort. The guys are arranged around it like a picture designed to make bad decisions look good.
Ronan is closest to the flames. He’s built like a myth and carries stillness like a weapon. His eyes lift when I come out, check me for harm, and soften by a millimeter. He doesn’t get up; he makes space without moving. The coat on my shoulders is his. It feels like standing under a roof in a storm.
Ash sits on a log opposite, one ankle hooked over a knee. He’s already smirking, which should be illegal before noon. Vex perches on his shoulder, glossy and alert, claws set in the seam of his jacket. A shadow like a cat’s tail curls at his boot and flicks back into nothing. He tips his chin at me like we’ve been friends for years and the universe forgot to tell me.
Caelum tends the pot, stirring with care, sleeves pushed to his elbows, a ring catching light when he turns his wrist. He glances back over his shoulder and the corner of his mouth lifts. He has the patient energy of someone who could talk you down from any ledge but might also push you if you’re being dramatic.
“There she is,” Ash crows. “Sleeping Beauty. No, wait, Sleeping Menace?”
I sit before my legs decide I’m auditioning for a collapse. The log is solid and cold through the coat. The bowl Caelum passes me is not. It’s heavy with stew and smells like salt and rosemary and something gamey. I could cry from gratitude. I don’t, because pride, but the feeling scrapes close.
“Careful,” Caelum warns. “It’s hot.”
“Same,” Ash murmurs.
“Ignore him.” Darian drops onto the other log with measured ease. “He’s physically incapable of silence before breakfast.”
“I’m—” My stomach chooses that moment to roar like an unpaid extra who finally got a speaking line. I close my eyes. “Okay. Yep. That.”
“You’re fine,” Ronan rumbles, voice low and rough like a promise dragged through gravel. “Eat.”
So I do. I don’t inhale it. I try not to, anyway. The first mouthful makes my hands shake. The second is better. The third landsand suddenly my body remembers how to be a body. Heat spreads from belly to limbs. I hear my breathing change—less shallow, less frantic—and that almost undoes me more than the hunger.
If I chew any faster, I’ll qualify as a wood chipper.
Ash grins like he heard it. “We’ll add that to the skill list. ‘Sera: wood chipper, arson horse, chaos magnet.’”
“Arson horse?” I echo, because apparently we’re just saying things now.
His eyes go wide, innocent. “Did I say that out loud? Terrible. No idea where that came from.”
