Wren went to his bedside and placed the back of her palm against his forehead. Beneath the hum of her magic, he wasn’t hot or clammy. His vitals were stable. He was alive, and she was so giddy, she almost embraced him. Although she mortified herself with that unwelcome impulse, imagining his horrified reaction delighted her enough to excuse herself for it. “How’re you feeling tonight?”

“Better.”

“Good.” She cleared her throat. “Well enough to conduct an investigation?”

“Well enough to walk, at least.”

Wren took his hands to help him stand. Even uncertain on his feet, even with the exhaustion painted in gray beneath his eyes, he was striking—and so endearingly ordinary with his ruffled hair and the patchy stubble along his jawline. Not even the Reaper of Vesria can grow a beard, she thought with petty amusement.

“I can walk on my own. Thank you.” He pulled his hands out of hers. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to shower.”

“No, not at all.”

He teetered to the door without her assistance. As much as she wanted to ensure he didn’t crack his head open on the tub, she suspected he’d glower—or worse—if she tried to follow him into the bathroom. He’ll be fine, she told herself, waving away the image of him drowning in an inch of water. In the meantime, she would purge this place of his sickness.

She left the room and rummaged through the hallway closets until she found clean linens tucked away on a shelf she had to stand on her toes to reach. Then, she tore the sheets off his bed and managed to loosen the ice enough to pry open every window. With the cold light pouring in, the room already felt less heavy, less miserable. The winter chill dulled the rank stench of disease. As she shoved the blood- and sweat-stained linens into a laundry basket, the door opened again. Hal stood in the threshold, water dripping from the ends of his hair. The dampness seeped into his collar, and although he’d left the first few buttons of his shirt undone, it was startling to see him looking so presentable.

Her eyes skirted over his exposed collarbones. She’d seen him undressed before. She’d touched his bare skin. Her magic lived inside him. But now, outside the pretense of medical attention, it was as if she’d caught him out, unaware and naked. He must have noticed it, too, judging by how he slowly fastened his buttons. As if he knew she liked what she saw and meant to exploit it. He made it all the more intimate. All the more humiliating.

Allies or not, he still managed to infuriate her.