Chapter 23 · Four Sets of Boots

The door clicks shut and the room shrinks two sizes.

I don't turn around. The mirror over the dresser does it for me — Valerius in his Tribunal coat, cuffs undone, hair shoved back like he came straight off the bench. The scar through his left eyebrow goes white under the lamp.

"Look at me."

"No."

"Seraphina."

"That's my name. Good. You remembered one thing." I line the brass brush up with the edge of the dresser. My hands don't shake. Weird. "You said your piece downstairs. Two hundred witnesses, very dramatic. Now get out."

"It's not your room."

"It's the one you locked me in. You want to argue property, hire a lawyer. I hear the Tribunal's got plenty."

Floorboards creak. Then he's close enough that the chill leaves the air and the heat comes off him instead — snow, iron, that burnt-sugar thing his wolf carries when he's barely holding on.

He doesn't touch me. That's the worst part.

Six weeks ago he couldn't have stopped himself. The bond would've dragged him in, that warm pull behind my ribs, a door opening in a freezing house.

Nothing behind my ribs now. Just the hole where the door was.