Chapter 5
Iwoke to the feeling of someone wrapping their arms around me from behind, and my body reacted the way six years of war had trained it to react, which is to say, badly.
My hand shot out, reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there.
My muscles tensed, ready to throw or strike or roll away, and it took three seconds for my sleep-fogged brain to register the smell of musk and morning air and the soft press of feathers against my back.
Wings and arms, and a voice giggling against my shoulder blade.
“You promised,” Sabrina said, her lips close enough to my ear that I could feel her breath. “Today is mine.”
I relaxed by one degree, which was all my military-paranoid nervous system was willing to concede at this hour. “You’re twenty-two years old,” I mumbled into the pillow. “You’re far too old to be waking me up like this.”
She hugged me tighter in response, her arms locking around my chest, her body pressed against my back in a way that made me acutely aware of the fact that Sabrina was not the sixteen-year-old girl I’d left behind.
Her breasts were full and warm through the thin fabric of whatever she was wearing, and the sensation of them mashing against my back triggered a cascade of lewd thoughts.
I eased back, trying to create space without being obvious about why I needed space. Sabrina either didn’t notice or pretended not to, which was very on-brand for her.
“Too old for hugs? Is that a rule now? Did the queen issue a decree?” She released me finally, rolling off the bed and landing on her feet. “I don’t remember voting on that legislation.”
I rolled over, blinking against the early light.
Sabrina stood at the foot of my bed in a pale blue dress that looked like it had been selected for maximum impact rather than morning wear, her wings half-extended, her light blonde hair loose around her shoulders, and a smile on her face that belonged on the face of someone who’d just won something valuable and was planning to rub it in.
Then I saw the bedside table. Someone, Sabrina obviously, had arranged a breakfast there with the kind of care usually reserved for state banquets.
Fresh pastries glazed with something that made my stomach do a complicated maneuver.
A bowl of summer berries, dark and gleaming.
Sweet rolls still steaming gently, the cinnamon smell cutting through the room like a friendly intruder.
A clay mug of what smelled like strong tea.
“You made this?” I said.
She beamed, the pride radiating off her in waves. “I woke early. The kitchen has no idea what hit it.”
I sat up, running a hand through my hair, which felt like it had been styled by strong winds and poor decision-making. “You baked, early in the morning.”
“Someone had to. Angelina was already up doing preserves, and Gabriella was doing whatever Gabriella does with numbers at that ungodly hour, which I assume involves staring at ledgers until they confess their secrets.” She plucked a pastry from the tray and held it out to me.
“Eat. All of it. Every crumb. Then we can leave.”
I took the pastry. It was still warm, the glaze sticky on my fingers, and when I bit into it the filling was sweet and sharp and better than anything I’d eaten in six years of military rations. I made a sound that was embarrassingly close to a moan.
Sabrina’s smile widened. “That’s what I was hoping for. Keep going.”
So I ate. She sat on the edge of the bed, her wings folded neatly behind her, watching me.
Between bites, she talked about her skybird, about a new dress she was having made for the summer celebration, the words coming fast and bright and occasionally colliding with each other mid-sentence the way they always did when she was excited.
I ate and listened and felt the warmth of being the subject of someone’s attention, which was a luxury I hadn’t experienced since before the war and was still learning how to receive without feeling like I owed something in return.
“So,” she said, when the pastry was gone and I was working on the berries, “I should probably mention that my friends are waiting.”
I paused, a blackberry halfway to my mouth. “Waiting where?”
“Everywhere. Here on Oakwind. The neighboring islands. Basically every social gathering point within flying distance of this farm.” Her eyes were doing that thing, the gleam that meant she was delivering news she knew I wouldn’t love and was going to enjoy every second of my reaction.
“They’ve been waiting to meet the famous war hero I’ve been talking about. Some of them think I made you up.”
I set the berry down. “Sabrina.”
“Yes?”
“You’re parading me.”
“I’m introducing you. There’s a difference.”
“The difference is semantic.”
She laughed, the sound bright and unapologetic.
“Too bad. You promised. Today is mine, and mine involves you being charming to some very attractive angels who have heard nothing but glowing reports about your courage, your skill, and your unfortunately tragic inability to recognize when a woman is flirting with you.”
I groaned, and Sabrina’s laughter doubled.
“Come on,” she said, standing and grabbing my wrist. “Finish the tea. Put on something that isn’t that shirt.
We’re burning daylight, and I have a very specific itinerary that does not include you looking like you dressed in the dark, which you currently do. ”
I drank the tea. It was good, strong, slightly sweet, the way Angelina made it but with something extra, probably honey.
The warmth of it moved through my chest and settled something that had been restless since I woke up, or maybe since the conversation on the porch last night, or maybe since the moment I’d landed in this yard and realized that coming home meant stepping back into a life that had continued without me and would now have to make room.
Sabrina was already at the door, bouncing on her toes, her wings twitching with impatience. “Five minutes,” she said. “Or I come back in and the next hug involves significantly less clothing on my part, and I don’t think either of us is emotionally prepared for that early in the morning.”
She disappeared down the hallway, her laughter trailing behind her like something she’d spilled and wasn’t planning to clean up.
I sat on the edge of the bed, the empty mug warm in my hands, and tried very hard not to think about the press of her breasts against my back or the way her body had felt wrapped around mine or the dangerous warmth that had started in my chest the moment she’d walked into the room and hadn’t quite gone away.
Some homecomings, it turned out, were more complicated than others.
* * *
I dressed in the least embarrassing shirt I owned, which was a dark green linen thing that had survived six years in a drawer and still fit my shoulders without splitting, and went downstairs to find Sabrina perched on the porch railing like she’d been there for hours, her wings folded behind her, her legs swinging, a basket balanced on her knee.
“You look almost presentable,” she said, hopping down. “The bar was very low, so don’t let it go to your head.”
“Where are we going?”
“Everywhere. Come on … Let’s go to my skybird.”
“Are we flying?”
She picked up the basket as we headed toward the stable. “Yeah, since Gabriella took you across Oakwind yesterday, I thought we could visit some neighboring islands.”
Sabrina’s skybird, Sora, was nothing like Valen, which was the first thing I noticed and also the last thing I should have said aloud.
“She’s offended now,” Sabrina said, patting the bird’s neck as it gave me a look that suggested it had understood every word. “They have very sensitive egos, skybirds. It’s why they’re so pretty. Compensation.”
The bird was magnificent in a way that was entirely different from Valen’s raw military power.
Where Valen was built for endurance and speed, this skybird was built for beauty, and she knew it.
Sabrina’s skybird’s plumage was a riot of white and pale blue, the feathers layered in patterns that caught the morning sun and scattered it, sending fragments of light dancing across the stable wall every time the great wings moved.
The blue deepened along the wing edges to something almost sapphire, and the crest on its head stood tall and proud, the feathers tipped with silver that gleamed like fresh coin.
“Meet Sora,” Sabrina said. She ran her hand along the bird’s neck, and it leaned into the touch like a cat, its eyes half-closing.
“I got her three years ago. She was a runt, would you believe it? The breeder on the island was going to sell her for meat because she was too small for riding. I bought her for six silver crowns.”
Sora turned her head and regarded me with one bright, intelligent eye.
There was judgment in that look. I’d seen it before, from Valen, from eagles, from animals that had spent enough time around humans to develop opinions about them.
Sora’s opinion of me, based on the tilt of her head and the slight narrowing of her eye, was that I was large, unfamiliar, and probably not worth the effort of memorizing.
“She doesn’t like men,” Sabrina said cheerfully. “It’s a phase. She’ll grow out of it.”
“She’s staring at me like I’m a threat.”
“You are a threat. You’re enormous and you smell like military discipline, which she finds deeply suspicious.” Sabrina stepped to the saddle and checked the straps. “She’s particular about who rides her. Has to be someone she trusts.”
“And she trusts me because?”
“Because I trust you, and she trusts me, and that’s how these things work.” Sabrina turned, her eyes bright, and gestured toward the saddle. “Mount up, war hero.”