Page 53 of House of Crimson Cloak and Silver Teeth

Just warmth.

I let my eyes close and drift off.

Chapter Seven

Garrett’s face is inches from mine as I open my eyes.

He’s already awake, propped up on one elbow, watching me with a small smile. His hair is mussed from sleep, catching the morning light like spun gold.

“Morning,” he says softly.

My brain takes a moment to catch up. We’re still tangled together. His arm is still around my waist. And there’s a very obvious, very uncomfortable problem between my legs.

Fuck. I’m unbearably hard.

The dream is still vivid in my mind.

Garrett beneath me, my hands pinning his wrists, his back arching as I drove into him. The grunts he made as he echoed my name. But the dream had shifted and twisted in the middle. Suddenly I was the one pinned, Garrett’s weight pressing me into the mattress, his teeth on my throat, taking what he wanted.

Why the hell would I dream that?

Because a dream is the only place where my most depraved and darkest fantasies can play.

I came in my sleep. I can feel the sticky, uncomfortable mess in my smallclothes.

Please, every god that exists, let him not notice.

“You came to bed after all,” he says, smiling.

Fuck.

I extract myself from his embrace as carefully as possible, keeping the blanket strategically positioned. “Yeah.”

“I didn’t catch a cold, thanks to you,” he mutters.

“It’s nothing.” I’m already moving toward my pack, angling my body away from him. “I’ll use the shower first.”

“Alright.” If he notices my hurry, he doesn’t mention it.

I grab clean clothes and practically flee to the bathroom. The moment the door closes, I lean against it, heart pounding.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

The shower is quick and cold. I scrub away the evidence of my dream, trying not to think about Garrett on the other side of that door and how right it felt waking up in his arms.

When I emerge, Garrett gives me that easy smile again.

“Your turn,” I mutter, gathering my clothes.

He disappears into the bathroom and I use the time to collect myself. Check my knives, adjust my mask, anything to avoid thinking about the dream or the way he looked at me this morning.

By the time he finishes, I’ve managed to rebuild some of my walls. We pack quickly, efficiently. Muireann has breakfast waiting downstairs. It’s just some bread, cheese, and cold meat. We eat standing, both of us eager to get moving.

“The forest,” Garrett says as we head for the stables. “Muireann said that’s where they found Marcian’s blood. It’s near the old oak at the edge of Elmwood.”

We ride out as the village wakes around us. Children wave at Garrett. He waves back, but as soon as he turns away from them the easy warmth is gone. His jaw is set, determined.

Four days old by my estimate. Dark stains on the roots of the oak, soaked deep into the bark. The canopy is too thick here and the rain hasn’t touched this spot. I crouch down, studying the splatter patterns on the trunk itself. The blood arcs too high for a fallen body.