Defend the Dawn (Defy the Night #2)(95)
“Tessa?”
“Come lie in the bed.”
It’s too dark to see him clearly from here, but I can sense the weight of his eyes. I wonder if he’ll refuse. But then fabric rustles, and he uncurls in the darkness, approaching slowly, the faint moonlight revealing the shadows and lines of his body.
I shift over to make room. His bed is narrow, and not quite wide enough for two people, but he slips in beside me. Despite my shirt and trousers, I can feel his warmth, and somehow it makes me shiver.
“Are you cold?” he says. He doesn’t wait for an answer; he just rises up on one elbow to arrange the blankets.
“No,” I say quickly. “I’m not cold.”
He’s looking down at me, his eyes fixed on mine, affectionate yet predatory, gentle yet primal. Something inside me grips tight, stealing my breath.
Corrick lifts a hand as if to stroke my face, but I put a hand against his shoulder before he can touch me.
“Wait,” I whisper, and he does. He holds there, one hand half lifted, the other braced against the bed to support his weight. It’s doing impressive things to the musculature of his arms, especially when combined with the tiny remaining glow from the lantern.
But he waits, no impatience in his eyes.
I don’t know what I wanted him to wait for. Maybe it’s exactly this: reassurance that no matter what everyone else sees in him, his word is true.
A scar cuts across his bicep, and I trace a finger over the line. His skin is smooth and warm. “How did you get this one?”
His eyes don’t leave mine. “The night patrol caught a smuggler in the Sorrowlands. It’s a two-day journey to the Royal Sector. Somewhere along the way, he was able to fashion—and hide—a makeshift blade.”
“You’re lucky he didn’t sever a tendon.”
“I’m lucky he didn’t stab me right in the heart. That was his goal.”
I think of how quickly he dodged the attacker in the candy shop—but I don’t want to think about that Corrick.
I run my fingers along another scar, this time on his abdomen, and his breath shudders a tiny bit. “What about this one?”
“Ah … big man out of Steel City. Took a blade off one of the Hold guards.”
It looks like a puncture wound. “He stabbed you?”
He nods. “I was sixteen. I thought that one was going to do me in. It took ages to heal.”
Sixteen. I fight to keep a frown off my face. Sometimes I forget how long he’s been doing this, how young he was when he was forced to become someone terrible.
He has another deep scar on his lower back, I remember. I reach up to trace the jagged line to where it disappears under the waistband of his trousers, my fingers slipping under the edge of the fabric.
He hisses a breath, and his eyes close. “You’re killing me, Tessa.”
“Tell me about this one,” I say.
“That one wasn’t a smuggler.” He smiles, a little fondly, a little sadly. “That was the result of boyish nonsense with Harristan.”
“Climbing trees?” I say, and I’m only partly teasing.
“Racing horses in the snow. I was in the lead, but the horse slipped, and I came off. Harristan’s horse nearly ran right over top of me. I broke two ribs, too. I thought Mother was going to kill us both.” His tone sounds like it’s dangerously close to turning too heavy, so he presses a hand to my cheek, his thumb tracing under my eye. “How about you? Any dangerous apothecary scars for me to discover?”
“Just one. Nothing exciting.”
“Hmm.” His finger keeps tracing the line of my face, but his blue eyes hold me captive. The boat rocks and sways, but I’m content to stay here and inhale his scent. I wait for him to try for more, because I’m here in his bed. I’m not sure I would mind if he tried for more.
But his hand keeps stroking my face, and ventures no farther. My eyes begin to drift closed.
“Are you afraid?” I whisper.
“No. I’m ready.”
I look up at him. “Do you really think we’re in danger tonight?”
He leans down and brushes a kiss against my forehead. “Let’s just say that I’ll be surprised if Blakemore lets us sleep till morning.”
We do sleep till morning.
Well, I do. I have no idea whether Corrick slept at all. When my eyes open, the room is almost fully dark, the remaining lantern burning through the last dregs of oil. The ship is tossing more violently this morning. I don’t know what time it is, but it must be early, because there’s barely any light in the porthole. We’re tangled up in the blankets, his breath warm against the shell of my ear.
Locked in this room, feeling the heat of Corrick’s body at my back, I could forget everything happening on the other side of the door.
The only reminder that keeps bringing things to the forefront of my mind is the brisk rocking of the ship.
“We made it to morning,” I say.
“Yes, we did. Hopefully he’s not waiting on the other side of that door to execute us.”
His voice is full of sarcasm, but there’s a note of truth hidden in there, too.
“What if the ships have drawn closer?” I say.
“If they have, I suspect Captain Blakemore will make good on his threat to return us to Port Karenin. We’ll disembark and book passage back to the Royal Sector. But that’s assuming those ships were sent by Harristan and that they mean us no harm.”