“I’m not so sure. It’s very pink.” Going to the cubby that held the other clothes, she found that the uniform top and pants she’d worn the night of her abduction had been meticulously repaired, laundered, and returned. Finn, she realized, must’ve dropped these off with the T-shirt. The scars of the repaired tears in Aden’s leather jacket made it appear as if someone—the healer?—had literally torn through the tough material with his claws. A note sticking out of the pocket said whoever had done the repair had wiped off all traces of blood, but hadn’t otherwise cleaned it, worried about causing damage.
“That solves it.” Grabbing the uniform items, she headed toward the bathroom . . . and hesitated. “Are we attempting to blend in?”
“We can’t blend in, but we should do our best not to appear so other that they close their minds against us.”
Zaira looked down at the pink pony again. “For the good of the squad.” At least she could throw the leather jacket on over it. Because she wasn’t going to give that back to Aden. It was hers now. He’d given it to her. If he wanted it back . . . well, he couldn’t have it.
Some things of his, she might give back to him if he really wanted them, but not the jacket. It smelled of him and when she wore it, she didn’t feel alone. “I’m keeping this,” she said to him in case he believed any different.
His lashes, thick and long and curling, came down over his eyes, rose back up again. “You’ll have to shorten the arms.”
“I’ll just fold them.” She began to do exactly that. “If I cut them, you won’t be able to wear it.”
“I thought you were keeping it.”
“I’m going to lend it to you sometimes.” Then it would smell like him again. “But it’s mine.”
A slight incline of his head before he walked into the bathroom to refresh himself after their long and deep sleep. The changelings clearly had no problem finding clothing that fit him. When he came out after a quick shower, he was wearing the same pair of faded blue jeans as the previous night, but his T-shirt was plain gray, his feet bare, and his hair slightly damp in front and tumbled.
It was the most casual she had ever seen him.
“You look normal,” she said as she finished putting on her boots. “Not like an Arrow.”
His eyes met hers, and there it was: the thing that made him an Arrow, the same thing that made her want to own him, keep him.
“Good.” Sitting down to pull on his own boots, he said, “We should go to breakfast—but first, why did you feel the need to remind yourself you aren’t a psychopath?”
Zaira should’ve answered him. It was a perfectly reasonable question from the leader of the squad. What she did was open the trapdoor that led to the corridor outside the infirmary and go down. Aden followed seconds later. Heading toward the breakfast area Finn had given Aden instructions on how to find, Zaira considered her own irrational behavior and found no answer.
“This is it,” Aden said, nodding to a door on her left.
Opening it, she found herself going up narrow steps that opened out onto a path laid along a sturdy branch. The outside world was blocked out by thin sheets of transparent plas, but there was no heat, the chill extreme. “Strong construction,” she said, tapping on the plas to find it was near-glass quality, the rain beyond rolling down the outer surface in crystalline beads. “Glass would be more dangerous if they have children around.”
“It’s also more durable,” Aden pointed out. “And easier to disassemble.”
“Of course. They must remove the panels during clear weather.” They were leopards, after all, likely prowled freely along the branches of this tree and those of the other forest giants around them.
The dining aerie was located in a smaller tree to their left, though “smaller” was a relative term, given the size of the trees.
Just after they’d made their way inside and hung their jackets on the hooks by the door, a small changeling child ran over to Zaira. It was female, she thought, its curly black hair tousled and standing up every which way, and its body clad in what looked like pajamas with feet. The pajamas were pale yellow fleece with white sheep on them.
Around two years of age, she judged. Possibly two and a half.
The child also appeared to have clawlike scars on the right-hand side of her face, but a second look made Zaira question their origins. It didn’t appear as if she’d been mauled; the marks were integrated too flawlessly into her skin and facial features. As if she’d been born with them . . . and then Zaira recalled an image she’d seen of Lucas Hunter.
The DarkRiver alpha bore identical markings. Either the child was somehow related to the alpha or this was a changeling genetic quirk.
“Hi!” the child said, staring up with yellow-brown leopard eyes against skin of a glowing deep brown.
Zaira didn’t know how to interact with children but she replied to this one so as not to offend their hosts, many of whom were in the room. “Hello.”
The child pointed. “Pony!”
“Yes.”
That was when the child raised its arms with a bright smile.
Zaira had no dealings with children. Not even Arrow children. “What am I supposed to do?” she said to Aden.
“Pick her up.”
“Like a sack of supplies?”
“A bit more carefully.” But he was moving even as he spoke, going down on his haunches to say, “How about me instead?” He opened his arms and the child went right into them.