"You smell like you," he points out. Her wet braid is between them; his face is almost against her damp hair. "I smell like me. I meant that you could look at me if you wake in the night."

Something in his heart does a little flip at her comment about him being handsome and distracting. He should be used to it, but he's never used to it. From time to time, the knowledge that someone loves him like this, that they've made plans for the future, that their love is clean and honorable and possible, is arresting.

But she's asked him a question. He looks down past her at where Ghost is curled on the floor, and sees the tip of the direwolf's ear, one of his haunches. "No. But he was only a little pup when I found him. As small as Irriella was when she could ride in your hair."