Page 12 of Taste of Thorns
“Muriel didn’t think I deserved a bed.”
“And how about your dad?” Beaufort asks. “Didn’t he have anything to say about it?”
“He was off his face every evening,” she mutters. “I doubt he knew what was going on.”
“Piece of shit,” Dray mutters.
“I think,” she says, smothering a yawn, “it’s what Slate does to you. Chews you up and spits you out. I’m really enjoying imagining Odessa there. Maybe I’ll get to visit.”
She smiles wickedly at me and I’m severely tempted to drag her from her chair to mine and do equally wicked things to her.
But the stern look Beaufort’s giving me from behind her, one that reads, “behave, shithead,” decides me against the idea. Usually I take that as a provocation, but we’re here for Thorne tonight.
Soon, the little Kitten is drifting away into sleep. She’s had a busy little day. Beaufort follows soon after.
Then it’s just me, sitting awake in the dark, watching over my brother and our mate, mulling over everything I just read about lumomancy.
Eventually light filters through the window and brightens the room and I find Thorne staring back at me, looking much more like his normal grumpy-ass self.
“What is this? A vigil or something?” he asks. “Am I dying?”
“I wish,” I say, winking at him before I feel something weak and feeble punch me on the arm. Little Kitten.
“Don’t say that!”
“He knows I’m only joking.” I blow Thorne a big kiss, one that makes him frown. “I love him really.”
“The feeling is not mutual,” he deadpans. He considers the three of us. “You all slept in here last night?”
“Yep,” I say.
“You didn’t have to,” he mumbles.
“We did,” Briony says, “that’s what friends do.” She chews on the inside of her cheek a little nervously. “How are you feeling, Thorne?”
Her eyes are a little puffy, her skin blotchy from all the crying she did last night. I don’t like seeing her sad like that. If Thorne wasn’t already hurting, I’d beat his ass for making her sad like that. I’ve already decided I’m going to work damn hard to never see her that sad again.
“Better,” Thorne says, nodding. “Although, a little groggy.”
“You’re probably hungry,” little Kitten says. “I could make you some breakfast.”
I capture her around the waist and drag her onto my lap, burying my nose in her neck. She smells of sleep and flowers and something basal. “I know what I want to eat for breakfast.” I nip at her neck and her skin flushes hot, even as she attempts to wriggle away.
“Put her down,” Beaufort commands.
“Err, no fucking way,” I say. “She smells too good.”
“I don’t! I smell awful. I haven’t showered since the trial.”
“You need a shower?” I say eagerly.
“Big time.”
“Shit, yes,” I say, scooping her up into my arms. “Excuse me,” I tell the others. Thorne’s okay. The self-loathing swamping his eyes yesterday has gone, replaced by the usual irritation. Yep, things are back to normal. Time to put that smile back on my kitten’s face. “We’ll be back in about two to three hours. Four if I get really lucky.”
“Where are you taking me?” she squeals, kicking her legs.
“To clean you up.” As we leave the room, I add, “Then I’m going to make you all dirty again just so I have an excuse to clean you up a second time. Maybe with my tongue!”
