“Don’t touch that.” It’s Dair, hissing and glaring at me from across the nest. He’s never whispered at me before, which makes the fact that he’s bent out of shape about me touching a specific blanket even more hilarious. I pinch the soft silver silk and hold it up. “This?” “Yes,” he snaps, leaving our breakfast tray on the lip of the recessed mattress so he can snatch the fabric out of my hands. “It’s her favorite.”
