Wren set Rowan down in the middle of the kitchen, steadying him roughly with a hand on his arm before abruptly turning away. The fire of his eyes grazed over Rowan's face and then was gone, leaving him feeling hot and cold at the same time.
Rowan studied the rigid line of his back and fiddled with the silk of his shirt, which still bunched at his waist from after Wren had shoved it aside to remove the poison. Wren's fingers curled and uncurled at his sides. His body betrayed his frustration with every shallow breath.
Silence filled the small room and thickened the air with a tension that wasn't completely anger. It made it hard to move, hard to speak.
Rowan's belly fluttered in anticipation. He had the strange urge to both provoke Wren and beg him for forgiveness.
Then beg him for more.
"Wren, I—"
"Don't bother. You aren't sorry."
"Do you hate me now?"
