Aria Blackwing's Arc

Chapter 13 of 24

Aria lay in the dark with the bar across the door and the poker within reach. The fire had burned down to coals. The owl had tucked its head. The raven had gone quiet in its box. Derek breathed beside her, awake, then slower, then asleep. She listened for the porch and heard only wind. Sleep took her in pieces. She woke twice to check the shutter and once to check the birds. The third time she woke, she did not check anything. She woke because she was cold. The fire was almost out. The room held that deep chill that comes before dawn. She reached down and pulled the black blanket up from the foot of the bed. It was thick and heavy in her hand, the kind of weight that felt like a held breath. She drew it over both of them. Then she moved. She did not think about it first. She slid across the sheet until her forehead touched Derek's shoulder and her knee found his. She pressed in against his side the way a small bird presses into another bird on a branch when the wind comes. Derek did not speak. He shifted once to make room, then his arm came around her and settled at the small of her back. His hand was warm through her shift. He pulled her closer against his chest, careful of the bandage on his other arm. She felt his chin rest lightly on the top of her head. She had barred the door twice. A man knew the cabin. The animal was still in the trees. None of that changed. What changed was this: she could feel his heartbeat under her cheek, slow and even, and her own began to match it. Her shoulders came down. Her hands, which had been curled tight since the porch cracked, opened flat against his chest. She had spent her life listening for what might come through the door. She had built her sanctuary around wounded things and taught herself to stay awake for them. She had never, until now, let anyone stand between her and the night. "Sleep," Derek said, low, above her hair. It was not an order. It was a promise she could put weight on. She slept. When she woke, the window was pale. Derek's arm was still around her. The owl watched them from its perch. The raven scratched once in its box and settled. Aria did not move yet. She lay against him and understood something she had been circling for weeks. The sanctuary was not the cabin. It was not the walls or the door or the salve on the shelf. It was this — a place where a hurt thing could close its eyes and not keep watch. She had been trying to build it for the birds. She had built it for herself too. She opened her eyes and began to plan the day.