Daniel laughed, unoffended. "I only tremble when she's angry. Which is always."
Sasha let out a low sound that might've been a chuckle, but it died quickly. His eyes were still fixed on the stone wall, on the faint line where the frost hadn't yet surrendered to the sun. The silence stretched between them.
"I need a bath." Sasha complained, disgusted by the wet shirt clinging to him. Winter was approaching; in this part of the country, the cold arrived sooner and lasted longer, but he did not mind. He enjoyed the bite of the cold and the clean air.
Daniel fell into step beside Sasha, his grin creeping back like moss over stone.
"So," he said casually, "what exactly did I do to deserve the comparison to Aimee? I've been nothing but loyal, brave, and charming."
Sasha gave him a look.
"You ran when she threw a wooden spoon at your head."
"It was a sharp spoon," Daniel muttered. "And she has terrible aim. It nearly got my eye."
