Any Way the Wind Blows (Simon Snow, #3)

by Rainbow Rowell

that Simon and I were being extremely homosexual together.

I wish he’d show up and snog me stupid right now . . .

“Penelope . . .” I smile. “Does that mean we’re friends?” She rolls her eyes—like she thinks I’m worth helping, but not talking to—and starts with the pacing again.

I turn to face him. “You’re really extremely infuriating, do you know that?” He smiles. Almost like he’s being patient with me. It’s infuriating. “Penelope, you’re honestly the first person to ever say so.” I rub my eyes again and groan.

“You keep talking about magic,” I say. “I’m talking about us.” “It’s all the same thing!” “I don’t care about magic!” I do care, I care passionately. But I’d give my magic to the Humdrum to fix this. “That’s a lie,” Simon says. I pull my wand out of my sleeve and hold both ends. “I’ll break it, Snow. I don’t care. I don’t need it. Not like I—” “You’re not breaking your wand.” He tries to yank the thing out of my hands, but he ends up pulling me closer. My face hangs over his. I’ve been yelling. I’ve been angry. But now I’m just . . . “Please,” I say, so quietly. “Please, Simon. Don’t do this.”

His hair is brushing against my forehead. We’re both holding on to his ivory wand. The fight’s gone out of him, and that’s no good, because fighting is all I can manage right now. “Baz . . .” I whisper. He presses his forehead to mine. “Don’t do this. Don’t do this to me, love.” “I have to.” His head is rocking against mine, from side to side. “No, Simon. No. We can’t come apart like this. We’re not made of pieces that come apart.” “Baz—” “You can’t just give up on this. On me. Don’t you know what we have? It’s the sort of thing people dream about. They make potions to steal it.” He pulls his wand against his chest. He pulls me with it. “I know,” I say. And I do. I know. I know I’ll never love anyone like I love Baz. I know he’s the love of my life. Of all my lives.

This was my life to find love. The truest love. The biggest.

“I love you,” I say.

Simon needed time. He needed care.

I’d wait. I was going to wait.

“You’re in my blood, you’re my holy wine. You taste so bitter and so sweet.” That’s the part that hurts the most, and I’ve decided that it helps to hurt the most. It sort of maxes out my nerve endings. They’re knocking on the door. Fuck off. More knocking. Seriously, fuck off. I turn up the music. I have to use a spell to do it, because the speakers are already at their limit. “These go to eleven!” The neighbours are really banging on the door now. I should spell off their hands. I’m not even going to answer the door—I’ll just spell their hands off from here. Wait . . . They’ve stopped. Have they stopped? There’s no knocking . . . No knocking . . . I think they’ve given up. Good. Go back to your flat, and get used to this. This is our soundtrack now. Oh—my favourite part is coming around again. Sing it, James. “You’re in my blood, you’re my holy—” Knocking! Fucking pounding on the door! I jump off the couch. My head spins. I give myself a moment. More bloody knocking. I plow over to the door and yank it open. My fangs might be out, I can’t be held responsible. Simon Snow is standing there. About to knock again. His hand drops. “Baz,” he says. He looks down at me. “You haven’t changed.”

His arms are folded when he comes back, and he’s sneering. “Oh. Snow. You’re still here. I expected you to run and hide as soon as my back was turned.” I lift my chin. “I deserve that.”

Simon came to see me.

He came to tell me I was right . . . I open the door again. He’s still standing there. “What was I right about?” I demand. “And you better make this clear and to the point, for once in your magic-forsaken life.”

Baz is shaking his head, too, just slightly, like he’s quietly rejecting every word. “I thought you’d go down fighting if you believed in something . . .”

Simon’s mouth is hanging open. “No,” he says. “I mean . . .” He reaches out a hand but doesn’t touch me. “What I mean is, as soon as I turned against the Mage, I left the map. It was like I walked right out of the story everyone had been telling about me. I started losing, and I didn’t stop. You felt like something I grabbed on my way down—but I never believed I’d get to keep you. I didn’t get to keep anything . . . What did I get to keep, Baz?” Simon is crying, too, but he doesn’t wipe his tears. Just licks away the ones that hit his lips. “I didn’t try,” he says, “because I thought it would be worse if I tried. I told myself to enjoy it—you—while I could. But that didn’t work. It felt like eighth year again, waiting for the Humdrum to attack. The waiting . . . I’m not good at waiting.” I rub my nose against my sleeve. I nod. I know. “I just wanted to, like, make it happen,” he says. “To like, charge into it and get it over with. Whenever we were together, I just wanted to get it all over with.” I laugh again. The hits keep coming. Simon shoves his hand up into the front of his hair and pulls. “Stop,” he says. “I know how that sounds. That’s not how I mean it!” “No.” I shake my head. “I know. I know how you mean it. It still hurts.” He looks in my eyes. He’s hardly looked away. “Baz”—his voice is small—“do you think it would have been different if I’d tried?”

“Come on,” he says softly. “Come in.”

“The question on the table is whether it would have mattered, to our relationship, if you had tried?” He looks over at me, infernal chin raised. “Yeah.” “Of fucking course it would have mattered!” I say. “What kind of question is that?” He’s nodding, too quickly, looking at my aunt’s rug. “Right. Right. Of course.” He scrapes his fingers up the back of his hair to the top of his head. “Right.” I want to grab his wrists. I want to shake him. (I want to cast spells over his shoulders and make every pain in his body go away.) “I was trying,” I say. “Every minute.” Simon nods. “I know. I’m sorry.” “Don’t.” “All right. Sorry. I mean. Just—” Use your words, Snow.

“What do you want from me, Snow?” He’s breathing through his teeth. “I just—” “You just.” “I mean—” “You mean.” I wonder if I sound cruel. I wonder if I mean to be. “I want to try!”

“It’s okay,” I spit out, trying to reel things back. “I don’t expect—You don’t owe me—” “Shut up, Snow.” I shut up. I think Baz is still crying. I’m so bad at this. At people. At him. I shouldn’t have come here. I stand up— His hand latches on to my wrist. “Don’t you dare.” I sit down again. “Okay. Sorry.” Baz doesn’t let go. His hand is cold. He’s still looking at his lap. “What does that mean?” He sounds careful. “That you want to try?” “Just what I said. That I want—That I wish I could—That I would like to—” I clench my jaw for a second. “Try. With you. To see . . . if it could be different.” “Why?” “Because I don’t want to give up.” Baz scowls up at me. “Am I a video game you’re trying to beat?” “No!” He pulls on my arm, but doesn’t pull me close. “Then why?” “Because you were right! I didn’t try. I gave up on us. And I can’t—I can’t live with myself—” “I don’t care!” I take Baz’s other hand. By the wrist. He’s holding me back, and I’m holding on to him. “I can’t go on, Baz, knowing that it could have been different!” “That sounds like another apology.” I look in his cold, grey eyes. I beg him to understand. I’m growling again, I know it. “I want to . . . try. Because—Because I love you, Baz. I love you, and I didn’t think that I could keep you. But if there’s a chance . . . If there’s any chance at all . . . I can’t—I want—I need—” Baz’s hand goes slack on my arm. I let go of him. I push my palms into my eyes. They’re wet—how long have I been crying? Baz isn’t saying ...

you can’t just give up without a fight.” “I’m so sorry, Baz.” I push and pull on his jumper. His forehead thunks against mine. I nod. “Okay,” I whisper. “Okay?” he whispers back. “Okay, Snow. We’ll try. We’ll try this with you trying.” “Yeah?” I nod against him. “Yeah.” “Okay.” He exhales roughly against my lips, then takes another shuddering breath. “Christ, I’m so scared.” “Already? Don’t we get a day of clinging to each other before things fall apart again?” Simon laughs over my mouth. He’s been drinking orange juice. He needs a shower. He smells like a locker room and a back alley and something bleachy. “I don’t—” he says, looking down. “I—” His hair is in my eyes. I brush my nose against his. He starts again: “I don’t know how not to be afraid that you’ll leave me.” I scoff. “I won’t leave you. When have I ever left?” “You can’t know how it will be,” he says, head hanging. “Over time. You might not want me once you don’t have to worry about me leaving.” Who even knew Simon was capable of such mental gymnastics? “You have a real genius for catastrophizing, Snow.” “Is that the same as having a genius for catastrophes? Because, obviously. How many times has Penny’s mum said so?” I pull back so he can see me. “I’m not going to get tired of you.” “You can’t know that,” he says, bumping my nose with his forehead. “I can. Look at me.” I catch his chin. I wait for his blue eyes to settle on mine. “This thing between us didn’t start with us dating. It didn’t even start when yo...

“There is so much to unpack in that sentence.”

I tug at his jumper. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Snow. You’re not allowed to feel sorry for yourself as long as you get to have me.” I mean it. I’m thinking about kissing him, to drive the point home, but I’m gun-shy and unsure of my permissions. Maybe we have to build back up to kissing. Maybe Snow needs a high-speed chase to get him in the mood. I’m thinking about it. About what I’m allowed. And what I deserve. And what I can stand— And then he kisses me. I kiss him back. And back. And back.

I was worried that Baz wouldn’t want to kiss me—but it turns out, that wasn’t an issue. He held my face with both hands, and I held his, and we kissed until my chin hurt from pushing into him. Baz can probably kiss for days without getting sore. With his superhuman vampire chin. His lips don’t even get puffed up. We’ve stopped kissing now, but we’re still holding on to each other. I think we’re both afraid to pull away.

He’s rubbing the corner of my mouth. “You’re bleeding,” he says, looking worried. “Did I cut you?” I shake my head. “I think that’s from you. You’ve got a little . . .” I rub at the blood lingering near his chin. “Oh, fuck!” he says, turning away from me and covering his mouth. “That’s rat blood. I got rat blood in your mouth.” I try to pull him back by the shoulders. “Hey, I don’t mind.” “You don’t mind rat blood?” I shrug. “I’ll brush my teeth.” “Fat lot of good that’ll do against the plague.” He’s still pulling away. “Don’t go,” I say. “Not yet.” Baz’s shoulders soften in my hands. He lets me turn him back. He lets me touch his chin, his cheeks. His hand is still over his mouth—I kiss it. I’m so relieved to still be here, I can feel it rolling off me in waves. I’m surprised it’s not visible. “I need a shower,” Baz says. “I haven’t cleaned up since Oxford.” “I’m kind of enjoying it.” I grin. “I didn’t know you could get rank.” He rolls his eyes, and shoves at me. “You need a shower, too. You smell like—actually I don’t know what you smell like. Something corrosive.” “It’s my wings,” I say. His face falls. And so does his hand. I lick my thumb and scrape the rest of the rat blood from his mouth. “Does it hurt?” he asks. He’s looking at my shoulder. I shake my head. “Oh, uh—no. I mean, I didn’t have it done yet. I chickened out.” It wasn’t quite like that. I didn’t chicken out. It was more like I got overwhelmed. I couldn’t stop thinking about what Baz had said and how I n...

“Could you do this on purpose?” He’s probing my back with his fingers, one eyebrow cocked. “If you could, you wouldn’t even need a spell to hide them—they’re hardly noticeable like this.” “Pfft, I look like that Disney character with the droopy eye.” He stares at me for a second. “Quasimodo?” “Yeah, him.” He rolls his eyes again. “All right, maybe, but you don’t look like a dragon.”

And then . . . Well. I needed to come here. I’m still going to do it, have them off, but I—I needed to talk to you.” I feel something against my wings and crank my head back. Baz is kissing me. Well, he’s kissing the wings. Down one side. Slowly. And . . . Up . . . The other. It feels like he’s kissing the inside of my ear. Or the back of my throat. I shudder. Baz puts his arms around my waist, and holds me there. “You’ll get Betadine on your mouth,” I say. His voice is low: “Probably needs it.” It’s too much. My skin is crawling, and my wings are flinching. I’m worried they’re going to fly out, like someone opening a spiked umbrella in his face. I pull his hands apart at my stomach and turn around. His lips really are orange; it makes me laugh. “We should take a shower,” I say. Baz raises an eyebrow. My cheeks get hot. “I mean, we should both take showers. Like you said. Can I—I mean, this is your aunt’s place, right? Does she have a shower? Would she mind?”

I hear it from the kitchen when the shower stops. It takes me back to Watford. To lying in my bed, knowing Snow had just finished his shower. Bracing for him to come out, all damp and surly. Telling myself that I wasn’t going to look at him. That I wasn’t going to care. And always doing both. When I walk back to my bedroom, Simon is dressed and sitting tentatively at the edge of my mattress. Damp. Nervous. He looks like a dog who knows he isn’t supposed to be on the bed. He’s wearing one of my old football shirts. (Have I manipulated this whole scenario just to see Snow in my Watford shirt? Perhaps. Take it up with the courts.)

I motion at his back, walking closer. “I can fix that shirt for you—” “I don’t want to ruin it.” “I don’t mind.” I don’t. Then it would be his shirt, and he might wear it again. My name on his back, my number. I’ve already got my wand out and pointed at him. Simon lifts up his hands, suddenly distressed. “Baz, no.” “Oh,” I say, looking down at my wand. “Is this bad? Do you not want me to . . . magic? Around you?” His hands drop. “No, I mean—Yeah, of course you can, you know, magic. I just—” He shakes his head, like he’s clearing it. “You know what? Go ahead. Do it. I’d like to spread my wings out a bit anyway.” “If you’re certain.” Simon takes my wrist and points my wand at his chest, so I cast the spell—“Like a glove!”—and the shirt refits itself around his wings.

The bathroom is still steamed up from Simon’s shower, and I swoon a little, thinking about him in here,

(Smoke and mirrors, how did I survive sharing a room with Simon Snow through my entire adolescence?) (Oh, yes, I remember: furious wanking. Furious everything.)

Our fingers touch when he hands it to me. I’d be blushing if I had enough blood in me.

Simon takes a sandwich as soon as I do, and shoves most of it into his mouth. He bites down, and his face lights up. He’s kissing my cheek now, holding his tea out to the side, so it won’t spill. “What’s that about?” I ask. He noses at my ear. Softly: “There’s butter on these ham sandwiches.” “I thought you liked them that way.” He nips at me. “I do.” Then he pulls back, still smiling. What a ridiculous creature. Happy that I put butter on his sandwich. As if I wouldn’t make the world spin backwards if I thought he’d like it better that way. “I haven’t eaten since last night,” he says, taking another sandwich. “I haven’t eaten since the train yesterday.” “That’s not true, you had rats.” “I didn’t eat them,” I say. “Maybe you should. There’d be less waste.” “Maybe you should eat them. Then it could be something we do together.” Snow laughs. He’s curling towards me as he eats. His legs are tucked up, and he’s leaning on me, his left wing pushing behind my shoulder. I move forward a bit, and he spreads it out, wrapping it around my back. The inside of his wings is softer than the outside. It’s rather like being wrapped in a suede blanket.

“This is what people are talking about when they talk about make-up sex, isn’t it?” I choke on my tea. “Not exactly.” He laughs at me. “No, I mean . . . It’s like when you think you’re going to die—like, you’re sure you’re about to lose your head—and then, at the last minute, you don’t. The other guy bites it instead. And it feels like you cheated somehow—” “Knowing you, you probably did cheat somehow.” “—but you’re still alive, and everything feels so amazing and, like, urgent. Like, you can’t believe how lucky you are to breathe, and you just want to breathe all the air at once.” “Most people,” I muse, “have more experience with makeup sex than with near beheadings.” He laughs. “Well, I get it now. The whole concept.” He’s holding his mug with both hands. I am, too. I lean against his shoulder, looking down at my tea, attempting to appear casual. “It could always be like this.” “I don’t think so,” Snow says. “This is ‘I nearly lost my head and then I didn’t’ euphoria.” “Nah.” I brush the outside of my knuckles against his. “I can promise you ‘this’ on a regular basis. A hot shower and lukewarm tea? Ham sandwiches in bed? This is table stakes, Snow.” He catches my fingers in his. “Baz . . .” His voice drops to a near whisper. “I don’t know what happens next.” I shake my head. “Me neither.” He pulls at my fingers. His eyebrows are down. Like he’s thinking hard, or trying not to. “I guess,” he says after a moment, “we just go along until I feel like running away. And then I...

“Baz?” Simon says eventually. “Yeah.” “Can we take a nap?” “Oh.” I sit up, away from him. “I mean, yeah.” “It’s just”—he looks apologetic—“I haven’t slept since . . . I don’t know, really.” “Yeah, me neither.” I take his cup and reach for the plate. “You take the bed. Fiona won’t be surprised to see me on the sofa—” “No. Baz.” He grabs my arm. “Stay.” “But your wings . . .” Simon almost never lets me sleep next to him. He says it’s because he thrashes around. “I thought you didn’t want to impale me.” He’s making an effort to smile. “I won’t toss much during a nap. Besides, you’re pretty hard to kill.” I take a breath to think about it, but I don’t get much thinking or breathing done. “All right,” I say out loud. Then I say it a few more times to myself. Right. All right. I set down our dishes and look around. I don’t have to close the shades—I keep them closed all day—but I turn off the lamp next to my bed, then stand up and pull back the duvet. Simon catches on and pushes it down, tucking his feet under. I slide in next to him, and tug it up over us. It’s strange to be under the covers like this. Him in joggers, me in jeans. It’s strange because we don’t do this. We never quite got to this stage. The boyfriends-being-boyfriends stage. Naps and cuddles and wearing each other’s clothes. Simon lies on his side, with his wings behind him, and pulls the duvet up under them as far as it will go. “You need a special blanket with wing slots,” I say. “Like a Snuggie for demons.” “...

and Simon’s wing is spread over my head.

Simon’s wings are behind him, his arm is around me. He’s pulled me in tight, my back to his chest, our hips nested together. He’s breathing heavily on my neck. I can’t remember ever being this warm. Sleep finger-walks up the back of my skull and pulls me under again.

Simon’s arm is around me. My back is against his chest. His breath is harsh and uneven on my neck. He’s awake. “Simon?” “Yeah.” His voice is rough. “What time is it?” “Don’t know,” he says into my hair. “Didn’t want to move.” “Maybe we shouldn’t have fallen asleep in the middle of the day.” “Maybe not.” He tucks his hand under my ribs and pulls me even more snugly against him. He’s rubbing his face into the back of my head. “You smell so good, Baz . . .” I close my eyes. I let him move me. “So good,” he says, pushing my head forward. “I can’t get enough of it. I can’t swallow it. And it . . . it doesn’t help to hold my breath . . .” He inhales again. Unsteadily. Then he’s biting my scalp, his mouth wide and wet in the hair above my neck. “So good . . .” I think he says. “So good.” He bites right at my hairline. He’s found the scar there before, stretched and faded. “If it were me,” he rasps, “if I were you . . .” He bites and bites. “I’d drain you fuckin’ dry, Baz, and it still wouldn’t be enough.” My fangs break though my gums—that happens, it’s all right, I try to suck them back. I try to turn, but Simon holds me fast against him. I let him. I lay my arm atop the arm he has wr...

But he’s still here. Lying quietly on one of my wings. Probably thinking about how much sex he could be having if he were with literally anyone other than me. I mean, have a look at him—he’s the most fuckable person alive. Or otherwise.

“No—because you don’t have anything to be sorry for. Come on, Snow, look at me.” I try. He looks tired. And sad. And embarrassed. “I don’t mind this,” he says. “Any of it.” “Oh my God, Baz—don’t lie to me! This isn’t what anyone wants to happen in bed.” I try to cover my face again, but his hand is on my cheek. He’s too close. “I’m not lying! I don’t mind comforting you, Simon. Or holding you. I don’t mind giving you what you need, whatever it is you need. I prefer it to you pushing me away. Or ignoring me.” I look up at him. “But you could date anyone you want. You could date everyone you want. And none of them would start bloody crying during foreplay.” Baz shrugs. “You don’t always cry . . . Sometimes you go glassy-eyed and nonresponsive.” My hands are twisted in my hair. “Fuck-ing a, I can’t believe you’re joking about this.” I try to roll away from him, but he’s all steel bands when he wants to be. He pins me down by the shoulders. “Wait,” he says. “Listen to me. Are you listening?” I close my eyes but stop trying to push him off. “I want to be with you,” he says. “And this is where we are right now. And I truly don’t mind, Simon.” I open my eyes. Baz is looking right down at me. “You don’t want more?” I ask. He shoves at my shoulders. “Of course I do. But not with just anyone. I want more with you, you twit.” I try to sit up, away from him, and this time he lets me. “What if I can’t give you more?” I say. “What if this is my best-case scenario?” Baz is dismissive. “I...

“You’d rather drink London rats than me?” Baz’s eyes are wide. He’s shaking his head. “Fuck you, Snow.” “Someday, perhaps. I’ve been told there’s hope.” I see something scurrying past me, and stomp on it. “Hey, look—I got one!”

He’d actually let me drink him . . . Never mind the pain. Or the scars. Or the blood loss. Or the risk of becoming a monster. I thought maybe Snow didn’t want to share a bed with me because he was afraid I’d bite him in my sleep. But apparently that’s fine! Bloodletting is fine—intimacy is the real taboo!

I shake my head. “I still can’t believe you’re doing this with me.” “I’ve kind of already done it with you. I used to follow you around the Catacombs every night.” I laugh. “Those weren’t dates, Snow.” He grins. “Is this a date, then?” I go back to scanning the alley for rats. “You really were obsessed with me, weren’t you? I can’t believe you didn’t know you were gay.” “I’m not gay,” Simon says. Immediately. I stop and turn back to him. “Oh. I’m sorry. I suppose, I mean—” We’ve never really talked about this. I’ve just assumed . . . I don’t know what I’ve assumed. “Are you bi, then?” “What?” He looks put off. “No.” “Well . . .” I look around the alley, like I might find something helpful there. I hold up my hands. I forget I’m carrying rats. “What does that leave, Simon? Do you still think you’re straight?” “Christ, Baz, I never thought I was straight. I never thought about it at all.” He’s walking down the alley, away from me. I follow after him. “Haven’t you thought about it a little? Since us?” “What’s there to think about? I’m with you. And you’re a . . .” He trails off. “Man,” I say flatly. Simon shrugs. “I was going to say ‘boy.’” “I’m twenty years old. I could go to war.” “I’d rather you didn’t.” “So, you do know you’re dating a man. That’s a start.” He turns to wink at me. “A-ha, this is a date.” “Simon, I’m being serious.” I’ve stopped walking. He stops, too. “Yeah, but why are you being serious? Is this important? Is this, like, our second-biggest problem? Me no...

I’ve said at least a dozen things in the last ten hours that I thought would kill me—that I would have rather died than try to put into words. Yet here I am. And there he is.

He arches an eyebrow at me. “Do you want my help with the shirt?” Baz gave me a clean T-shirt, but I left it on the dresser. “If it’s all the same to you”—I shrug one shoulder and twitch my wing—“it’s easier to sleep without one.” Baz nods and licks his bottom lip. “Yeah, it’s . . . all the same to me.” He shuts the bathroom door and comes to the bed, getting in next to me. I make room for him. His skin has pinkened up again. Still pale and grey—but a pinker grey. Rat blood looks good on him. “Are you getting crumbs in my bed, Snow?” “I’m the worst,” I say. “I don’t even notice them. You don’t mind sleeping some more?” “No,” Baz says, reaching for the milk bottle. “I’m knackered.” He takes a drink. I watch him swallow. I like it. I like him. His everything. I dig out the last biscuit, then hold it out to him. He smiles softly, taking it. I put my arm around him. “This okay?” “Yeah,” he says. “Pretty much always.” “Yeah?” “Yeah, Snow. There’s no use denying it.” “That’s . . .” I tighten my arm around him. I get my wing around him, too. I like having four arms to hold him. “It’s good. It’s better already, isn’t it?” “Better than what?” he asks. (I think he knows the answers to half the questions he asks me. He just likes to make me talk.) “Yesterday,” I say. “Everything is better than yesterday,” he says. “Yesterday was the nadir.” “It feels so long ago.” Baz sets down the milk. He brushes some crumbs off the duvet. I slink back in his bed, leaving my arm and wing open. His ...

still wanted to kiss me. Repeatedly.)

“Disagree.” “Baz . . .” he groaned, hiding his face. “Simon, you know how I feel about this. You fulfilled every prophecy.”

“Well”—Simon squared his shoulders—“we have to rescue her.” I could have hugged him in that moment. And then I realized that I could hug him. That nothing was stopping me. I wrapped my arms around him, under his wings, and held tight. “Baz?” Simon’s arms fell more gently around me. “Are you okay?” “I’m just very glad that you’re here.”

“Simon . . . Are you certain you want to get involved in this? It is magic.” He looked back at me, like I was being silly. “It’s your stepmum.” I smiled. I watched him send his texts. “I can make a few calls tomorrow morning,” I said. “Ask around. See if anyone knows anything.” “Shouldn’t we get started now?” He was sitting on the edge of the bed, ready to go. I held my hand out to him. “No. Nothing will change overnight. Let’s just sleep.” He looked surprised. “Are you sure?” “I’m sure, Snow.” He bit his lip for a moment, then took my hand and folded his wings. “All right. We’ll rescue Daphne tomorrow.” I pulled him down beside me, and laid my head on his chest again. “Tomorrow.”

“Well, if it isn’t Basilton Pitch. Did you take a break from getting your cock sucked and remember that you have friends and family?” “Took a break from sucking cock, actually.”