Any Way the Wind Blows (Simon Snow, #3)(73)

Baz looks surprised. “Your helping him off this mortal plane didn’t affect that?”

“Not according to Dr. Wellbelove.”

Baz laughs. “So the Mage paid for this flat?”

“Yeah.”

“And the Mage bought that mattress?”

“Indirectly.”

Baz grabs me by the waist and starts shoving me backwards towards the bedroom. He kicks off his shoes between shoves.

“Hey!”

“Shut up, Snow, I’m going to have my way with you on the Mage’s bed.”

He pushes me through the door, and I fall back onto the mattress. Baz grabs one of my legs and takes my trainer off by the heel.

“Is that a turn-on?” I watch him take off my other shoe. “The Mage’s bed?”

“Yes,” he says, throwing both shoes towards the door. “Because I hate him, and anything that would piss him off is a turn-on.” He climbs over me.

I swallow and hook my arms around his neck. “So that’s what this is, spite?”

“Hm-mm.” Baz kisses my neck. “Spite. Look where the Mage’s golden boy is now…”

“Depowered,” I say. “Deposed. Hackney Wick.”

Baz sits up, right on my stomach. I grunt and try to push him off.

“I meant”—he smacks my side—“in a homosexual relationship with one of his worst enemies.”

“Right,” I say, still grunting. He’s crushing me. “He’d hate that part, too.”

Baz rolls off of me onto his side, propping his head up with one hand.

“How much money did he leave you?”

“Enough for rent for a couple years. Less, if I buy furniture. But I’m going to get a job.”

“It’s all right,” he says. “I don’t care about furniture.”

Baz’s dark hair is curling around his neck. It’s just long enough to brush his shoulders now. I wonder how long he wants it. I push some of it behind his ear. Not because it looks bad. I just want to touch it. Is this what people do? They just keep talking and touching?

“I want a job,” I say.

“What kind?”

I shrug. “Whatever. Maybe a builder will hire me. I’m a hard worker.”

Baz is looking down at me. Frowning slightly. “You don’t want to stay at university?”

“I really don’t.”

“You’re not stupid,” he says.

I shrug again. Maybe I am. It doesn’t matter. The lock of hair has fallen over his ear. I tuck it back—Baz catches my hand. He brings it to his mouth and kisses the inside of my wrist, without looking away from my eyes. It makes me feel … I don’t know. I pull my hand away and stretch my arms over my head. One of the joints in my wings pops. They’re still bunched up under my T-shirt.

“Here,” Baz says, pushing up the bottom of my hoodie. I sit up and take off all my layers. He sits up, too, and gives me room to stretch out my wings.

He’s smiling at me. “You look like a bird, preening.”

“I can’t help it.” I’m still stretching. “They get cramped.”

He lies down again, on his back. I take the position he had, propped up on an elbow beside him. I’m still shaking my wings out behind me.

Baz reaches a hand up and pets my chest. I don’t have much hair there, not like him—he’s got a proper spread across his pecs and a black stripe down his belly. Now that I’ve got fat, I look like a baby when I’m bare-chested.

“You don’t have to wear a shirt on my account,” he says, still petting me.

“If you’re uncomfortable.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say.

“I mean … you should feel at ease in your own home.” He pinches the chub over my ribs.

I grab his wrist. “Thanks, ” I say, watching him laugh. And then, because I’m holding his wrist, I kiss it—it feels especially cool on my lips. “Are you cold?”

He shakes his head. “You’re the one who’s half undressed.”

“I’m fine, it’s warm in here. But you’re cold.” I kiss his wrist again. Then chafe it with my thumb.

“I don’t really get cold…”

“Like you can’t feel the cold?”

“No, I can. It just doesn’t usually bother me.” Baz looks troubled for a second. “Unless I’m sick.”

“When do you get sick?”

“Almost never. But … I was sick after the numpties. I was cold then.”

I kiss his wrist, harder. Then his palm. I hold his hand over my face, kissing it—it isn’t enough. I bring his hand up around my neck and lean over him, rubbing my face in his cheek. “I should have found you,” I say. “Your aunt should have told me you’d been kidnapped.”

“Snow, you hated me then.” He’s stroking the back of my hair. “You probably would have sent the numpties a thank-you note.”

I pull back. I find his grey eyes. “I would have slaughtered them. I was out of my head with worry.”

“You hated me,” he says again, more softly.

“Yeah … but I wouldn’t have let anyone hurt you.”