“Stay till I’m sleeping?”
The bed dips and he eases down next to me. “No problem,” he says, stretching out at my side. I turn and scooch into him, spoon-style, and his arm comes around my middle.
Finn reaches out, taking both my hands in his, and sets his chin down on my shoulder as he instructs me. I can feel his cheek rubbing against mine, the stubble of the slight beard he has here. I have to remember to breathe.
I don’t remember much about the wounding, other than I was very young, and it was a dagger. When I cried out, mother held my chin in her hand, squeezing hard, and told me I would end up dead if I didn’t learn to hush.
She was afraid.
Even though her own death was a sure thing, unalterable, she was afraid.
“. . . or so he thinks. He wants vengeance.”
“So do I.” My voice is cold and hard and I mean every one of those three words.
“Silent as the grave” doesn’t seem to apply to Brin. You’d think a ghost as old as him would be tired of his own voice by now.