Page 30 of Ash and Roses

I hear footsteps now that stop just on the other side of the door, as if he’s weighing his options. I let him, because I can wait as long as it takes. After the distinct clicks of five separate locks, the door swings open. Quinn stands shirtless in the doorway, blood running down his arm and chest from the bites on his shoulder. Aside from that, he seems relatively unharmed. His hair is tousled and there’s dirt on his face, but if he had a shirt on, it might look as if he didn’t just have a fistfight with a wolf.

“You’re alive,” I say matter-of-factly.

“You sound disappointed.” His clipped words match my tone.

“Maybe a bit.”

His eyes lock onto mine for a long moment before he takes a step back to allow me inside. I hurry past him to the far side of the round room to glance out the thin slit of a window. This has to be the highest point of the castle, and, with the sun setting, I think I can just make out the palace in Lunae, moonstone glinting in the distance. He speaks before I can ask.

“Do tell, Princess. What have I done to offend you so?” He bows mockingly, and a flicker of pain flashes across his face. Serves him right.

I notice that he’s left the door open, and a small part of me is thankful for that. I don’t want to be behind closed doors with him any more than he wants me invading his space. Or, perhaps, this is his way of telling me not to linger. I chew my lip for a moment, looking for the right words. There’s a lot I’d like to say to him, and very little of it is friendly. Considering the fact that he did just save my life, I decide to make an effort to be kind. After all, I threatened to stab him with a letter opener when we first met.

“You ordered me to leave.”

“I told you to get out of the garden.”

“That’s not what it sounded like. Maybe you should learn to be more specific.” I’m well aware of the tightening of his hands into fists. I shouldn’t push him, but who does he think he is? He can’t speak to me that way.

“Take off that shawl.”

“Excuse me?” What is it about this shawl?

He takes a step closer and squares his shoulders. “Take it off.”

I resist the urge to press my back against the wall, and instead take a step towards him, crossing my arms. “What was it doing in the garden?”

“That’s not your concern.”

“I think it is, seeing as it’s my property.”

His eyes glint in the light from the three flickering candles that illuminate the simple room. “The skin of a wolf belongs to no one but the wolf who bore it. Now take it off.”

“The wolf who bore it tried to kill me.”

“I wonder why,” he mutters under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Please, just take it off.” The fight is gone from his voice, and all that’s left is the genuine plea of a broken man.

“Since you asked nicely.” I slip it over my head and lay it gently on his bed. Even the bed in my chambers is bigger than this, and far more luxurious. “Do you really sleep here?”

His brows crease together. “Yes?”

“Is that a difficult question?” I remind myself that I’m trying to be nice, but such a thing just doesn’t seem possible when talking to him.

He shifts from one foot to the other, clearly uncomfortable with this sudden line of questioning. “Yes, I sleep here.”

“So you didn’t give me your chambers?” Mine are fit for royalty whereas this tower is… I don’t know who it’s fit for.

“I did not. They belonged to someone who no longer needs them.”

I nod before gesturing to the door and its ridiculous amount of locks. “Who are you trying to keep out?” When he doesn’t answer, I let out a long sigh and point to the bed. “Sit down.”

His expression morphs into something that could almost be amusement. “You’re giving me orders now?”

I mimic his earlier mocking bow and wait for him to do as he’s told. He takes a stiff seat on the edge of the bed, his long legs bent at the knees and parted only slightly. He doesn’t trust me enough to relax in my presence, which is fine. I can’t say I’m all that relaxed, either. I could just walk out that door and leave him to his reclusive self, but my eyes keep moving to the torn flesh of his shoulder and my stomach roils with guilt.

“That’s my drink,” he says in protest when I take an open bottle from a small table and pour the dark liquid onto a bloodstained cloth he was almost certainly using before I disturbed him.

I ignore him and press the damp cloth to his shoulder. He hisses at the sting of it and leans away from me, but I refuse to relent. “Don’t be such a child.”