I don’t owe the man an explanation—I don’t owe him anything. But for him to believe this has to do with my dislike of them isn’t how I want to start this night. I swallow past the lump in my throat, hating the tremble in my voice when I whisper, “My mother died in a fire, and the smoke brings back awful memories.”

Everett kicks the back of the log Gryffin sits on, sending the man sprawling into the dirt.

Gryffin scrambles to his feet and whirls on Everett, his stark features twisted in fury. “What the fuck was that for?”

“I told you to be nice.”

“How was I supposed to fucking know about her mother?”

Clucking his tongue, Maddox shakes his head. “Language, Gryff.”

“Fuck you, too.”

I expect him to stomp off, but instead he sits right back down and drags something from a leather satchel on the ground.

Everett holds out his hand. His long fingers envelop mine as he leads me to a spot far enough from the fire that the smoke doesn’t reach. He scowls down at the sparse patch of grass forcing its way through the dirt. “I should have brought a blanket for you to sit on.”

“There’s no need.” I unclasp my cloak and stretch it across the ground. Even after I settle myself with my skirts around me, Everett remains standing there looking like he doesn’t know what to do next. “Aren’t you going to sit with me?”

He glances to where his friends are watching, then back to me. After a few moments of indecision, he sinks down onto my cloak.

Maddox withdraws his dagger, balancing the tip of the blade on his index finger while Gryffin stabs the fire with a sword, sending sparks dancing into the endless gray.

“So this is what you do all night?” I ask.

Everett nods.

“Doesn’t it get boring?”

Maddox flicks his dagger into the air, catching it by the hilt. “Sometimes we kill trespassers.”

They do?

Everett shifts closer, bumping his shoulder against mine. “He is joking.”

“Am I?” Maddox waggles his brows, a wicked gleam in his eyes and a smile twisting his lips.

Maddox is the comedian, and Gryffin is the grumpy one. What does that make Everett? As if he can feel me staring at him, he turns slightly. His dark, slashing brows lift, a silent question in his black eyes.

Who are you?

This is neither the time nor the place for that question, so I ask another. “What’s with all the bones?” I nod toward the piles of white lining either side of the path.

“Most animals can smell death and avoid the area,” he explains.

“So they’re not to scare us off?”

The corners of Everett’s lips tilt into an almost-smile. “An added bonus.”

A chill dances up my spine, and it has nothing to do with the damp breeze.