Her satchel filled with all her supplies lay within reach. She grabbed it, appreciative of the warmed leather in her cold hands, and rummaged until she found a flask filled to its stopper with brandy. She wasn’t sure if she craved it for its throat-burning heat or for distraction, but she drank and passed it to Hal.

He sniffed it cautiously and made a face.

“It’s not drugged,” she said bitterly. “Just drink it. It’ll help.”

They both rose on unsteady feet. While she pulled her stiff, wet hair out of its chignon, he took a swig of brandy and leaned against the wall. Seeing him here, watching her as he always did, set her aflame with indignation that she didn’t entirely understand.

“What have I done to upset you now?” he asked.

Wren closed the gap between them and shoved him. He hardly budged, which only made her burn hotter with annoyance. Because of course she couldn’t move him, even now when she’d nearly killed him.

“You saved me.” With every word, she beat her fists against his chest. “I’m your enemy. I tried to kidnap you. You’re Hal Cavendish, the most calculating and logical person I’ve ever met. This is illogical. This was the wrong decision—so obviously! How could you be so self-destructive, so—”

“Emotional?” Hal grabbed her wrists, only hard enough to remind her to stop hitting him. His hands were wind-chapped and callus-rough. And so, so cold. He smiled, but it was an unkind one. “Is that still what you believe? That I feel nothing at all?”

Emotional.

The word singed. Made her want to cry for reasons she couldn’t exactly place. It was confusion and longing and hope all snared up. Your compassion will get you killed, Una had told her. For so long, everyone had drilled it into her. Kindness and compassion had no place in the Queen’s Guard. But Hal’s kindness had saved her tonight, and Wren didn’t know how to make sense of it.

“Yes,” she said breathlessly. “Emotional.”

Hal let her go. Her skin stung from the sudden loss of him. While the glow of the hearth still stained his eyes orange, the fire in them had gone out. The flickering shadows sharpened the dark circles beneath his eyes, the edges of his cheekbones.

“You must be tired,” she said.

He nodded.

“Then let’s get some sleep and—” Wren peered over his shoulder and at last noticed the single bed squatting like a toad in the center of the room. Dread and desire both pooled in her stomach.

As if sensing her discomfort, Hal cleared his throat. “It’s yours.”