The warmth of relief that spreads through her is a glow, almost—the overlay of two moments, when she smiles up at him and he can see through it the way that she used to, with full cheeks and the low thrum of trouble yet to be made, and the weary truth of her holding him in place. She had meant to do it gentler,

but gentler wasn't working. (And perhaps Marcus might dispute her definition.)

“Close.” She doesn't try to pull herself free, but draws them together—presses her forehead to his, the way she has a hundred times before, how she would butt against him in greeting and clamber over the side of him and demand a share of his blanket. “Close. So are the Venatori. Tell me it's safe where you are.”