Page 35 of House of Crimson Cloak and Silver Teeth

The first pierce of the needle makes me suck in a breath through my teeth. Garrett’s touch is surprisingly gentle. His brow furrows in concentration as he works, pulling the edges of the wound together with careful stitches.

I watch his face. The way he bites his lower lip slightly when focusing. The crease between his brows. There’s genuine care in the way he handles me carefully.

“Tell me about your pack,” Garrett says quietly, not looking up from his work.

No one’s called it that in years. Most people say family, but pack is what the Sylverins were. It’s what we called ourselves before the purge.

“I barely remember them,” I say, and it’s mostly true. The memories are fragments now, worn smooth by time.

“Tell me what you do remember.” Another stitch and a pull. His fingers press against my skin, warm and solid.

I don’t know why I reach into my pocket with my free hand. Maybe it’s the blood loss making me sentimental. I pull out the small leather pouch I’ve carried for years and open it.

The three silver teeth glint in the fading light. Canines, filed sharp and set in silver caps.

“My grandfather’s,” I say, holding them out so Garrett can see. “He was the pack leader. The last alpha of the Sylverin Clan.”

Garrett pauses in his stitching to look. His fingers are still pressed against my ribs, holding the wound steady. “Sylverin. I’ve heard that name.”

“We were one of the great wolf clans before the purge.” I take the teeth back, running my thumb over the worn silver. “My grandfather held off the hunters long enough for some of us to escape. He didn’t make it.”

“How old were you?” Garrett asks softly, returning to his work.

“Nine. Maybe ten. Old enough to run but not old enough to fight.” The bitterness in my voice surprises me.

Garrett’s hands pause for just a moment. Then he continues stitching, his touch somehow gentler than before.

I watch him work silently.

This lordling stitching me up is the same person who escorts me to healers for my knee. He spends his own coin on my medical care.

Something strange blooms in my chest.

Garrett Clayborne is kind.

And he’s beautiful. I’ve noticed that before, but seeing him like this, covered in dirt and blood but still somehow radiant in the dying light—it hits differently.

This isn’t safe. These feelings aren’t safe.

“Almost done,” Garrett murmurs. His breath ghosts across my skin and I have to fight not to shiver.

I close my fist around the silver teeth, feeling the sharp points press into my palm. The pain grounds me.

Garrett ties off the last stitch and sits back to examine his work. “That should hold. But you really should let the healers look at it tomorrow.”

“We’ll see.”

He runs a hand through his hair, and his scent drifts over to me, wreaking havoc on my senses. It takes everything I have not to lean in, not to bury my face in the curve of his neck and breathe him in properly.

“You hesitate before you take a life. That makes you better than most.” His hand finds my shoulder. “You’re a good person, Wolf.”

“I’m not good, Garrett.” I pull back, breaking contact before I do something stupid. “Don’t mistake hesitation for virtue.”

He reaches out and I hand him the silver teeth to look. He studies them with quiet reverence. Our fingers brush as he takes them. That spark again, stronger this time.

“I’m not good either,” he says quietly, turning the teeth over in his palm before handing them back. “Maybe that’s why this works.”

Garrett is quiet for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is careful.