Thistle entered the room with a fresh loaf of bread. Behind him, back in his Destrier clothes, came Ravyn. Heat rose up my collar. Suddenly, I was very preoccupied with my plate. “Smells amazing,” Ravyn said, patting Thistle’s back. He came up behind his parents and Emory, stealing a slice of bread off his father’s plate. He passed Elm, mussing his cousin’s wild hair before taking a seat. Everyone was watching him, brows high. When I looked up, Ravyn’s gaze was on me, his mouth upturned, his teeth tugging at his bottom lip. “Morning.” He looked stupidly handsome, smug to his boots. I hid
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