Chapter 3They found Sam’s bedroom. It contained Sam’s bed, and Sam’s wardrobe, and a chest of drawers, and a writing-desk. All of those were several years old, durable and plain, chosen for unremarkable longevity. The woven carpet was also plain, English-made rather than imported, dark blue, and thick.
John said, “Do you not earn a salary, at all? Or do you genuinely enjoy living the life of a twelfth-century monk?” He had a hand around Sam’s wrist. He’d put it there, and left it, on the walk to the bedroom. Sam’s heart was thumping.
He said, “And you’re a thief. And a seducer of bandits, apparently. I don’t need much.” John’s thumb was tracing the inside of his wrist, his veins, the beating of his pulse.
“You need me.” John looked him up and down. “You do, don’t you? You want this so b
