“I think you like kissing me, Harlow.”
I glare at him. “I think you want me to say I like it so you don’t have to think about the fact that I have nothing to compare it to.”
There’s a scratching sound at the door that leads to my closet. Henry crosses the bathroom and opens the door. Kyrin struts into the bathroom, nuzzling his head against my hip. I run a hand over his fur, and he yawns and nods his head toward my bedroom.
I turn to follow him as he trots into my room, casting a glance over my shoulder at my husband. “Sorry, Henry. This bed is only big enough for one wolf, and that spot has been claimed.”
I take pleasure in slamming the door in his face for the second time in a day.
34
HENRY
Iwake from a nightmare, panting. The linen sheets are plastered to my skin with sweat. My bad dreams are frequent, but they’re always of the night of the attack. They’re always Holly’s determined face as she turns away from my broken body to face the Drained.
But not tonight. The Divine must want to torture me because I dreamed of Harlow, blood-soaked and facing off with that Breeder.
If she wasn’t such a Divine-damned pain in my ass, I could look at her beside me in bed and know she’s safe—that the future of the fort is safe. Instead, she’s locked in her bedroom, probably sleeping soundly.
Fierce, driving rain pounds against the windows, the wind howling through the old panes.
Faint scratching sounds from the washroom that connects my room to Harlow’s have me up and out of bed in seconds.
I pause, straining to hear over the storm. Kyrin whines on the other side of her bedroom door, and the scratching returns.
I try the handle, but it’s locked. Pressing my ear to the door, I try to calm my breathing. The storm sounds louder in her room. Like the windows are open or—the balcony doors.
I draw back and jam my heel into the spot right above the doorknob. It rattles and groans but doesn’t open. It takes three more tries before the door finally flies open and splinters fly in all directions.
The balcony doors are thrown open and the wind batters them against the wall. The rain-soaked curtains snap in the wind.
Harlow isn’t in her bed.
All the panic I felt upon waking returns in a stifling wave.
I race out onto the balcony.
Harlow stands precariously poised on the railing, staring down at the stone patio below. Her nightdress is plastered to her skin, her hair hanging in soaking clumps down her back.
Calling her name might startle her, so I approach her carefully from behind. She remains frozen in place despite the battering rain and wind.
Finally, I’m close enough to reach her. I wrap an arm around her waist and yank her back, and she instantly goes rigid. She struggles until she tips her head up and looks at me.
“Henry?” She blinks rapidly, looking from me to the sky, and then around the balcony. “How?—”
I swipe an arm under her legs, lift her, and carry her inside.
I place her on her feet inside the room and close the doors. My hands are shaking so badly that I fumble to latch them closed. Then I stay there with my hands on the glass for an extra moment, trying to compose myself.
Finally, I turn to face her. “What were you doing?”
“I was asleep,” she says flatly.
“You were standing on the railing like you were going to jump.”
The confusion on her face transforms into irritation. “Bleeding woods! I’m not suicidal, Henry. Being married to you isn’tthatbad. I just had a bad dream.”
“About tonight?”
