I readjusted the blankets again. “I’m not sure I’ve ever said that.”

“I’m sure you have.”

I glanced up at him. “I have nearly a Ph.D. in literature.”

“And you just ate what I’m guessing is a significant number of processed snack cakes. Having a degree doesn’t guarantee good choices. But you can probably analyze Chaucer like a champ.”

“Damn straight. How were the supplicants?”

“Remarkably straightforward,” he said, taking off his jacket and hanging it on the back of the desk chair we’d resituated at the desk. “How is Mallory?”

“Good. I’m not sold on this elopement situation, but she seems to have accepted it, so I’m not sure there’s anything for me to do.”

He nodded, hands on his hips. “She’s an adult, as is he.”

“I know. But it’s marriage, and I’d like him to pull that stick out of his ass. Maybe you could talk to him.”

“No.”

“Ethan—”

“No,” he said again, this time more firmly, and walked into the closet. “His relationship is between him and Mallory,” he called out. “Let her vent, if that’s your friendship. But they have to make those decisions for themselves.”

“Stubborn ass,” I murmured.

He emerged in emerald green silk pajama bottoms and an arched eyebrow. “I heard that. And I suspect Catcher’s the stubborn ass here, not me.”

I couldn’t argue with that. “Is Morgan here?”

“He’s coming tomorrow night. Wanted to stay at the House tonight, make sure the remaining vampires at Navarre were safe. Grey’s already got guards on the House, and we’ve contracted for a few humans as well. That should keep the Circle at bay during the day, at least.”

“What about the Investiture?”

“We’ve discussed it, but only generally. Scott’s and Morgan’s minds are on something else.”

I nodded, but Ethan’s furrowed brow didn’t relax.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Everything. I worry for you.”

I pointed to my trusty bracelet. “I’m covered.”

One corner of his mouth lifted, and he walked to the bed. “I’m worried about more than just tonight. He’s already tried to get to you twice.”

“He won’t get to me.”

“I know he won’t, Sentinel, because I won’t let him.”

Ethan lay down beside me, my eyes wide-open even as I felt the slow tug of sleep as the sun breached the horizon.

I was nervous, I admitted. I didn’t want to sleep, even with Mallory’s apotrope. Didn’t want to fend off pulling fingers and dripping fangs or feel as if my body was a pawn in their game. I didn’t want to fight.

“You are mine,” Ethan said, opening his arms to me, embracing me when I curled toward him. This time, I hadn’t hesitated, exhaustion at least tempering that fear.

“Let me hold you in the darkness,” he whispered, lips against my ear. “Let me fight him for you. Let me keep you safe.”

The depth of the love in his voice, the feel of his body against mine, made my pulse pound with want. But while my body was responsive, my brain was not. It was fully in protective mode. Not just that I’d think of Balthasar, but that every new intimacy with Ethan would give Balthasar another bullet to use against us.

“Soon,” Ethan promised, reading me even in the darkness of the room. “Soon, and inevitably. For you are mine, Sentinel,” he said, words slower and softer as sleep overtook him.

“Mine.”

Chapter Eighteen

DIASPORA

I woke with a sudden start, legs sprawled across the bed, arms crossed beneath my head so that the bracelet pressed into my face.

“Sentinel,” Ethan said quietly.

“I’m all right. I’m fine.” I sat up, pushed damp hair from my face. My body was dotted with sweat, my pajamas damp with it. I’d slept like a rock—deeply, heavily, and with no memory of Balthasar.

“Did he . . . ?”

I shook my head. But I had dreamed about a bevy of white-toqued Navarre chefs, carving me up with very large knives. No more late-night Mallocakes.

“You look a bit peaky.” He cocked his head. “You also have the imprint of a raven in your face.”

I rubbed groggily at the sleep wrinkles. “I feel like I ran a marathon.”

“You did a lot of running yesterday, which was long enough, and you’ve slept in the embrace of magic. Blood, I think, would help.”

“Shower first. Blood later.”

He paused. “I’d like to join you. But I don’t want to push you if you aren’t ready.”

I must not have been ready, since my first reaction was to tell him no.

“He hurt you,” Ethan said, pushing a lock of hair behind my ear. “It’s all right to take time to heal, to feel yourself again.” He smiled softly. “As I said at dawn, Sentinel, I’m not going anywhere.”

I knew what he was doing—little touches, small caresses, intended to comfort and help me adjust to him again, help me build comfort in intimacy.

“I’ll be fine,” I promised him. “I’m sorry that I’m letting him use me to hurt you.”

“You’re doing no such thing. You’re taking care of yourself. As I love you, I prefer that you do just that.” He ran his hands down my arms. “Let me do what I can, Sentinel. Let me take care of you.”