He considers me before he answers. “Because I was raised to be a weapon. Not carrying one reminds me every minute of every day that I broke from that path, and that I’m never going back. But”—he holds up a finger as if he can already see the thoughts inside my head—“I told you once that I’d found answers, but that I didn’t think they’d work for anyone else.”
“Why isn’t refusing to carry a weapon my answer, too?”
“Because you weren’t raised to be a weapon, Rachel. You were raised to be a warrior. There’s a difference. If you lay down your weapons, you’d be doing it out of fear, rather than out of knowledge.” He smiles, and it warms his entire face. “You aren’t a coward. Far from it. And the people most qualified to carry weapons are those who understand the consequences of using them.”
“And if I can’t stand to have more blood on my hands?”
“Maybe you need to take some time to really consider exactly how much blood is truly yours, and how much of that guilt belongs to others.”
“Ready?” Logan asks as he walks through the doorway.
“Ready.” I reach down and palm my knife without allowing myself to think about Melkin. Later, when I’m not about to face a killer, I’ll think about Quinn’s words. Right now I’m going to try my best to be the warrior they all think I am.
“Dragonskin?” Logan asks, pointing at the thin silvery vest lying on the cot behind me.
“There were several vests in the weapons room. I’m guessing a few of the guards no longer feel the need to wear them since we’re inside Lankenshire?” Quinn reaches for the Dragonskin.
“The guards wore the vests to protect against a Carrington attack,” Logan says. “We all realize they don’t protect us against Ian, because he knows we’re wearing them.”
“Except we aren’t,” Adam says. “We stopped once we got inside Lankenshire because metal next to your skin isn’t very comfortable. Ian wouldn’t expect us to have Dragonskin on again.”
“Vests for everyone, then,” Logan says.
“Including you,” I say to Quinn. He smiles and goes to join Willow and Frankie in the hall outside the room.
“Okay”—Logan looks at me—“let’s get this on you.”
My eyes dart between Logan and Adam, and my face feels like it’s on fire. “Um. I’ve got it.”
Logan frowns. “Dragonskin is light for something made out of metal, but it’s still difficult to put on. Especially if you can’t use your right arm. We’ll help you.”
The fire spreads down my neck and heads toward my toes. “Logan, I’m not wearing an undertunic. If you think I’m going to strip down to nothing in front of the two of you—”
“No,” Logan says, just as Adam turns on his heel and says, “I’ll go get a vest of my own.”
“I sure know how to clear a room,” I say, but my breath is shaky because Logan is so close to me. I can feel the heat of his skin through the thin cotton of his tunic. I look up to find his eyes watching me with an intensity that threatens to turn my bones to water.
“Yes, you do,” he says softly, and reaches out to trail his finger over my cheek and down my neck until he reaches the hem of my tunic. “Turn around. I’ll help you. I won’t look at anything you aren’t ready for me to see. I promise.”
I turn to face the cot, and he rummages in a box against the wall until he finds a sleek undertunic in a shimmery white fabric that looks fancy enough to use for the first night after a Claiming ceremony.
Which is a really stupid thing to think about right now, because my skin refuses to keep secrets from Logan. It glows, my breath hitches in my throat, and a feeling just as real as the pain in my arm but infinitely more delicious spreads through my stomach in lazy spirals.
“This will work.” Logan’s voice is steady, but the fingers that reach around me to gently tug my tunic over my head tremble. His chest scrapes the sensitive skin along my back as he breathes in quick, little jerks as if he’s been running.
I sound like I’ve been running too.
“Hold still,” he whispers, and the shimmery undertunic flows over my skin like water. His hands cup my waist, and he pulls me against him. Pressing his mouth to the nape of my neck, he holds me in place for a long moment. Not that I’m tempted to move. Tiny shivers spark across the heat on my skin, and I wiggle even closer to him.
He lifts his head and says in a voice I barely recognize, “Walk away.”
“I—what?”
“Walk away from me.” His fingers dig into my hips. “Please.”
I don’t want to. I want to forget everything that haunts us, everything we still have to face, and just have this one perfect moment with him.
But something in Logan’s voice compels me to move. I take three steps forward until my knees hit the cot.
“Thank you,” he says after a long silence. Then he lifts the Dragonskin off the cot and carefully settles it over my head. It’s lighter than my cloak, and flexible when I move, but it still feels strange to wear something constrictive so close to my body.
I turn to face Logan, tugging at the Dragonskin with my left hand.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“For what?”
“For . . . being tempted by you.”
My smile feels just a little smug.
“Why isn’t refusing to carry a weapon my answer, too?”
“Because you weren’t raised to be a weapon, Rachel. You were raised to be a warrior. There’s a difference. If you lay down your weapons, you’d be doing it out of fear, rather than out of knowledge.” He smiles, and it warms his entire face. “You aren’t a coward. Far from it. And the people most qualified to carry weapons are those who understand the consequences of using them.”
“And if I can’t stand to have more blood on my hands?”
“Maybe you need to take some time to really consider exactly how much blood is truly yours, and how much of that guilt belongs to others.”
“Ready?” Logan asks as he walks through the doorway.
“Ready.” I reach down and palm my knife without allowing myself to think about Melkin. Later, when I’m not about to face a killer, I’ll think about Quinn’s words. Right now I’m going to try my best to be the warrior they all think I am.
“Dragonskin?” Logan asks, pointing at the thin silvery vest lying on the cot behind me.
“There were several vests in the weapons room. I’m guessing a few of the guards no longer feel the need to wear them since we’re inside Lankenshire?” Quinn reaches for the Dragonskin.
“The guards wore the vests to protect against a Carrington attack,” Logan says. “We all realize they don’t protect us against Ian, because he knows we’re wearing them.”
“Except we aren’t,” Adam says. “We stopped once we got inside Lankenshire because metal next to your skin isn’t very comfortable. Ian wouldn’t expect us to have Dragonskin on again.”
“Vests for everyone, then,” Logan says.
“Including you,” I say to Quinn. He smiles and goes to join Willow and Frankie in the hall outside the room.
“Okay”—Logan looks at me—“let’s get this on you.”
My eyes dart between Logan and Adam, and my face feels like it’s on fire. “Um. I’ve got it.”
Logan frowns. “Dragonskin is light for something made out of metal, but it’s still difficult to put on. Especially if you can’t use your right arm. We’ll help you.”
The fire spreads down my neck and heads toward my toes. “Logan, I’m not wearing an undertunic. If you think I’m going to strip down to nothing in front of the two of you—”
“No,” Logan says, just as Adam turns on his heel and says, “I’ll go get a vest of my own.”
“I sure know how to clear a room,” I say, but my breath is shaky because Logan is so close to me. I can feel the heat of his skin through the thin cotton of his tunic. I look up to find his eyes watching me with an intensity that threatens to turn my bones to water.
“Yes, you do,” he says softly, and reaches out to trail his finger over my cheek and down my neck until he reaches the hem of my tunic. “Turn around. I’ll help you. I won’t look at anything you aren’t ready for me to see. I promise.”
I turn to face the cot, and he rummages in a box against the wall until he finds a sleek undertunic in a shimmery white fabric that looks fancy enough to use for the first night after a Claiming ceremony.
Which is a really stupid thing to think about right now, because my skin refuses to keep secrets from Logan. It glows, my breath hitches in my throat, and a feeling just as real as the pain in my arm but infinitely more delicious spreads through my stomach in lazy spirals.
“This will work.” Logan’s voice is steady, but the fingers that reach around me to gently tug my tunic over my head tremble. His chest scrapes the sensitive skin along my back as he breathes in quick, little jerks as if he’s been running.
I sound like I’ve been running too.
“Hold still,” he whispers, and the shimmery undertunic flows over my skin like water. His hands cup my waist, and he pulls me against him. Pressing his mouth to the nape of my neck, he holds me in place for a long moment. Not that I’m tempted to move. Tiny shivers spark across the heat on my skin, and I wiggle even closer to him.
He lifts his head and says in a voice I barely recognize, “Walk away.”
“I—what?”
“Walk away from me.” His fingers dig into my hips. “Please.”
I don’t want to. I want to forget everything that haunts us, everything we still have to face, and just have this one perfect moment with him.
But something in Logan’s voice compels me to move. I take three steps forward until my knees hit the cot.
“Thank you,” he says after a long silence. Then he lifts the Dragonskin off the cot and carefully settles it over my head. It’s lighter than my cloak, and flexible when I move, but it still feels strange to wear something constrictive so close to my body.
I turn to face Logan, tugging at the Dragonskin with my left hand.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“For what?”
“For . . . being tempted by you.”
My smile feels just a little smug.
