Page 159 of Harbinger

“Where are we going?” Although it’s obvious where he’s headed.

Bishop is making a new move.

“Come on,” he calls to me. “I told you that I have a surprise for you.”

That bastard. I take a step in the direction of Miradores instead, but he adds, “Will you just trust me?”

That stops me, because that is what we’re supposed to be doing now—trusting each other. I suck down a deep breath and force myself to follow him.

“I know what you’re up to,” I say as I fall into step beside him.

“In that case, I’ll assume you have no objections.” He smirks at my stunned expression.

“Oh, I have many objections.” But where to fucking begin? “I told you—”

“That you didn’t feel safe using the baths,” he cuts me off.

“I didn’t say that!” Not exactly.

He releases a weary sigh that sounds as heavy as my footsteps are beginning to feel as the entrance to the baths comes into view. “I read between the lines.” He pauses at the door and turns to me. “No one is inside.”

I stare at him like he’s spoken in the ancient tongue. “What?”

“I closed them for Twelvetide,” he explains, eyes burning so brightly they almost glow. Even the blue of his irises looks silver in the twilight. “You’re the only person allowed to use them until the new year. Even a brief soak will help, so just …” He glances away from me, adding a gruff, “Happy Twelvetide.”

“I didn’t get you anything,” I repeat, half mumbling. He closed the entire complex. It isn’t fair. I shake my head, opening my mouth to say just that.

But Bishop continues. “And they are staying closed whether or not you use them, so I’d consider it a personal favor if you let me do something for you just this once.”

I bite my lip, unable to stop myself from smiling. It sneaks up on me before I can suppress it, tugging at the corner of my mouth like a secret I’ve failed to guard. My lip smarts where my teeth catch it, but the small sting is nothing compared to the warmth spreading through me. He did this for me. But closing an entire facility? It’s selfish. The gesture is too extravagant to be a gift. But if I can count on one thing, it’s that he’s every bit as stubborn as I am. He really will keep them closed.

Only a few torchieres are lit, but Bishop switches on more lights, revealing an entirely empty dressing room. Now that we’re inside, a different anxiety takes hold of me. It curls low in my stomach, coiling with every step I take into the bathhouse. I push it aside, wandering slowly behind him.

I brush my fingers against the wall as I pass, grounding myself against the smooth stone. The dull pain in my shoulders reminds me why we’re even here, but the soreness no longer commands my attention.

Instead, my gaze drifts to the broad line of Bishop’s back as he moves ahead, utterly at ease in the empty space he’s claimed for my sake.

I don’t know whether I want him to leave … or stay.

But before I can decide, he pauses at the small infirmary and gestures toward the arched doorway beyond. “The pools are all yours.”

“Thank you.” I’m so preoccupied with the fact that we’re both here, alone, that I nearly forget to say it.

He nods, flipping on a lamp in the infirmary before slipping off his coat. Hanging it up, he reaches toward a tin on a high shelf, the fabric of his uniform straining against his strong shoulders.

It’s rude to stare. I force my eyes away from him and take a single step toward one of the polished wooden benches stationed between the walls of lockers lining the dressing room. The space is completely empty, each locker door propped open and ready for use. Not even a single towel left on a hook, though there is a row of neatly folded ones laid across a long heating stone near the pool entrance.

The doorway breathes toward me, steam billowing through and fading to wisps that beckon like ghostly fingers before vanishing. But something stronger tries to tug my attention in the opposite direction. Toward the light glowing in the infirmary. I grab a fresh towel and strip out of my training clothes as quickly as my body allows, glancing over my shoulder every few seconds to see if Bishop is looking.

He’s not.

Good. I don’t want his attention.

But I check one more time to be sure.

He’s still not looking, and I push away a stab of disappointment.

Exhaustion clings to my bones as if they’ve turned to lead under my skin, and my muscles twinge with even the slightest movement like they’re deeply disappointed in my choices. I should already be stripped down and racing toward the promise of relief. The trouble is that I’m not sure I want to go in there alone.