Page 50 of Saving Sparrow (Slow Burns & Tragic Beginnings #2)

Now

My muscles were achy and stiff the next morning, making it impossible to get out of bed. The balm and the painkillers helped, but my body needed rest after the strenuous work of shoveling snow. Other than around lunchtime when the scent of warm bread and soup woke me, I slept through the whole day.

My eyes didn’t open again until nearly ten in the evening when hunger dragged me from sleep. Sparrow’s hearty beef stew waited for me, along with the pain pills I’d stuck in the drawer, and the antibiotics I’d left on the bathroom sink.

I took the hint, finishing my lukewarm stew and taking my meds, even though my cough hadn’t bothered me much while I slept. I downed it all, then drifted off again, waking in the middle of the night to a snack and more pills.

I felt much better the next day, finally recognizing the man who stared back at me in the mirror.

The last of the bruising along my cheekbones had faded, and the whites of my eyes were bright again.

I showered quickly, grabbing Tales of the Pavilion Sea off the nightstand before setting off to find my Florence Nightingale.

The classic novel was next to my oatmeal and pills that morning. It recounted Demian Demarco’s ascent to the throne. Chapter five had been bookmarked with a thin leather cord.

It was Friday, if my calculation of time could be trusted. Unsure of what Sparrow’s schedule looked like on Fridays, I allowed the scent of pine and vinegar to lead me to him. I found him in a cozy reading room downstairs.

With its well-loved couch and swivel accent chairs, it was the only room I’d seen so far that didn’t feel ancient and gloomy.

Deep in the corner by the bay window, Sparrow stopped what he was doing to glance over at me. My approach hadn’t exactly been quiet, which said a lot about my shifting comfort level around him.

Rubber gloves stretched up his forearms, and he held a spray bottle poised toward the already gleaming pane. “I don’t need your help,” he warned as I scanned the cleaning supplies organized near the tall bookcases. Sparrow went back to his meticulous work, dismissing me.

While perusing the worn titles on one of the bookshelves, I noticed an open space. Pulling the thick hardcover from under my arm, I slid it inside. A perfect fit.

“Did you read to me in the middle of the night?” I removed the book again, opening it to the bookmarked page. I remembered hearing a soothing voice but thought nothing of it until now. Maybe because the idea seemed so ridiculous.

“And why would I do that?” His voice was hard, but in light of our shared conversations, the teamwork we’d shown out in the cold, and all his care just in the last twenty-four hours… His tone no longer made me flinch.

“I must have been dreaming then,” I murmured, fingering the bookmarked page again. “Have you read this before?”

Sparrow glimpsed the book with a bored expression. “No. Now leave.”

“What made you leave it for me?”

He sighed, wiping the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. “You said you liked reading. I thought you might want something to do while in bed.”

I loved reading, and it wasn’t like there were any televisions here for me to watch. I did bring one book with me, but more for sentimental reasons.

“But why this book?”

Sparrow tore his rubber gloves off before charging across the room and snatching the book from my hands.

“Forget it. If I’d known it would cause this much trouble, I wouldn’t have done it.” He shoved it into its slot. I removed it again when he walked away.

I considered him, then all the other options lining the floor-to-ceiling shelves. “It was his favorite book, wasn’t it?” I thought I knew all of Elliott’s favorite books.

Sparrow stopped in his tracks, and silence fell over the room. I waited for him to do something. To say something. In the end, he ignored me, grabbing the broom from the corner.

I turned the book over in my hand, reading the synopsis and thinking back on what I remembered of the story.

Demian had been a lone warrior, protecting his realm from the shadows for over a century.

After the assassination of the only heir to the throne, King Brennus tasked Demian with hunting down the men responsible.

Demian had been loyal and lived by a code of ethics and honor forged in steel.

He’d never married, never had children of his own…

He’d lived a solitary life, his sole purpose to serve the House of Brennus.

Just days away from losing his battle with diphtheria, the king went against the advice of his council, appointing Demian his successor, and his daughter—Mirabel—Demian’s queen. No more lonely existence, no more fighting battles on his own.

“It’s your favorite book, isn’t it?” I whispered. The parallels between Sparrow and Demian struck me hard, hurting more than all my wounds had combined.

“Why are you here?” He fisted the wooden broomstick. I’d been about to say “for Elliott,” but I wasn’t so sure now. Or at least it was no longer the only truth.

I shook my head, feeling silly after realizing he wasn’t asking why I was in Alaska or why I was in this house. Sparrow wanted to know why I was in this room right now, bothering him. That question had a simpler answer.

“I just wanted to say thanks.” I held up the book. “For this and for the food and medicine. I was so tired. Shoveling snow is hard work.”

Sparrow grunted as he swept the floor. “I told you I didn’t need your help.”

“You’re awfully grumpy, you know.”

He glared at me. I didn’t think he was upset because I called him grumpy, but because my presence disrupted his compulsion to clean.

“Sorry,” I said, understanding that while it wasn’t my intention, I could be doing harm by interrupting his process.

“Was he?” he asked as I stepped into the hall.

“Was he what?”

Sparrow narrowed his eyes, refusing to repeat himself.

“No.” I gave my answer some consideration.

“Elliott was solemn—more so in the beginning. He spent a lot of time with his thoughts. He was shy, gentle, and na?ve. We were all na?ve sometimes, but Elliott was different. He just… didn’t know a lot of things, and I don’t mean academically.

The world made him nervous.” I crossed into the room again.

“He craved love and touch. So much touch. He practically purred whenever we touched him. Quentin and I worshipped him. He was our religion, the altar we knelt at.” How was I supposed to go on without them?

They were the air I breathed, the goodness in my heart, the flame that lit up my body.

I decided to stop there. “No, I wouldn’t call him grumpy. ”

“If you worshipped him, then why am I here?” He didn’t sound angry, just interested in the answer.

“We’ll get to that.” At this point, it wasn’t about trying to prove that Quentin and I hadn’t hurt Elliott that day. Sparrow had to know we had nothing to do with the violence of that night, even if he wouldn’t yet admit it.

I just needed him to know our love story.

I needed him to know Elliott’s life was filled with goodness and love.

I needed Sparrow to know Quentin and I had picked up the baton when he left, even if we hadn’t known it at the time.

I needed him to know he could trust me with his most prized possession again.

But I also wanted Sparrow himself to heal, to find his own measure of peace.

Because if I’d learned anything now, it was that in order to save Elliott, I’d need to save Sparrow first.

Sparrow went back to cleaning, and I quietly reclined on the couch, starting Demian’s story from chapter one. In my periphery, I caught him stealing glances. Did he stare because he wanted me gone? Or because he felt drawn to my presence? Either way, I kept my head down, pretending not to notice.

Four hours had passed by the time he was done. Every baseboard, every book lining the shelves, and every surface had been dusted and cleaned. The room sparkled—as impossible as it seemed in a house rooted in darkness and poison.

Sparrow closed his eyes, working a kink out of his neck, his braid dangerously close to unraveling.

“Are you hungry?” I asked tentatively, setting the book on the table next to me. I’d leapt from the couch to one of the chairs after he’d started vacuuming the upholstery as if he had no intention of skipping over me with the hose.

“I still have two more rooms on my schedule.” At this rate, he’d be cleaning until midnight.

“Can you stop to eat first? I’m feeling lightheaded,” I tossed in for good measure, playing on his protective instincts.

Sparrow looked me over for signs that I wasn’t well before speaking. “I can’t leave things like this.” He gestured to the mop, the bucket, the scrub brushes, and everything else in his cleaning arsenal.

“What will happen if you do?”

Sparrow stared at me as if I’d grown an extra head.

“We need to eat,” I said.

His expression clouded, going from appalled to antagonistic. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

I stood, getting close enough to make out the tiny freckle at the corner of his left eye, close enough to make his nostrils flare.

“I sat here and watched you work yourself to the bone for hours, and can only imagine how long you’d been cleaning before I showed up.

I’m tired and hungry just from watching you.

You must be starving. And now you want to continue your cleaning rampage?

I’m worried about you, Sparrow. Will you please stop and eat with me? Please?”

Sparrow licked his lips—a move so unlike him. He backed away, as if unable to think with me so close to him. “I… You…”

“Please don’t be upset,” I breathed, sensing he was working himself up to that, the one thing that felt familiar to him. “Just…” I shrugged. “Eat with me.”

He closed his eyes, loosening his posture before asking in a hoarse voice, “What will we eat?”

“Arroz con pollo.” I smiled, already knowing he had all the ingredients.