Oh God. That voice. I know that voice. And as my eyes adjust more and more to the light, I can make out his face too. Even without my spectacles, I recognize those eyes, those lips.
“No!” I repeat, even louder this time. I pull my blanket up to my chin. “No, no, no. Don’t tell me…”
He gives me a withering look. “Is your imagination running wild?”
A surge of memories spills into my awareness. I recall standing on a chair, spouting ridiculous poetry. The insults I exchanged with William. The bold confidence that spurred me on.
Cloud Dive, you traitor! It didn’t make me brilliant. It didn’t give me any genius ideas, only the opposite. And now…
“The bet,” I say under my breath.
“Ah, the mortification sets in.” Wicked mirth laces his voice.
“What did you do to me, William? This…this isn’t how we were supposed to?—”
“I didn’t do anything that you’re imagining, Ed.”
“Then why are you shirtless?”
“You threw up on me.”
“Then why am I shirtless?”
“Why the fuck do you think? You threw up on yourself too.” Shaking his head, he hastens over to a clothesline strung between the stove and the wardrobe. Two articles of clothing hang from it. He snatches down the larger one and whirls back to face me. “I barely touched you. My worst offense was loosening your corset so you could remove it yourself. Then I spent the next half hour scrubbing vomit from your blouse. I slept in the chair to ensure you didn’t hurl again and choke to death on your stomach’s contents.”
I blink at him. He did all that? For me? Suspicion dampens my surprise. Why was he in my bedroom in the first place?
He heads for the door, his aggravation painted in every long stride. “You’re welcome.”
“Wait!”
He halts, his fingers frozen on the handle.
I swallow the renewed dryness in my throat. “You mean…we really didn’t…”
He tips back his head with a long-suffering sigh, then slowly faces me once more. His eyes are narrowed, his lips curled in a cruel smirk. He glares down at me as he approaches the bed like a predator cornering his prey.
My senses are all mixed up because a strange thrill flutters through me.
He stops at the edge of my bed, plants one hand on the mattress, and leans down, giving me a much closer look at the firm musculature of his chest, the hollows of his collarbones, the length of his neck. His eyes lock on mine, and I shrink back, pinning my blankets more firmly to my chest. Still, the thrill remains, my heart thudding as I wait for whatever wicked thing he’s about to do.
“Oh, Weenie,” he says, voice so soft and deep it makes me shudder, “if we’d been together last night in the way you’re imagining, we’d have done more than remove our tops, and I would be in bed beside you, not in a chair. You wouldn’t have to ask what we’d done because every inch of your body would remember. You’d still be quaking from the pleasure I gave you. You’d be slick both from our expenditure and your want for more.”
A breath leaves my parted lips and I find myself swaying, my grip on my blankets slackening.
He leans ever closer, one knee on my bed now. His free hand inches toward me, then softly lands on the top edge of the blanket I continue to clutch. One I’m growing dangerously close to relinquishing.
“But I don’t bed drunk idiots, unlike some people.” His expression turns back to annoyance. He gives my blanket a firm tug, and my weakening grip gives way. “That’s mine.”
Belatedly, I realize my chest is still covered in my sheet, and what I thought was my blanket was his waistcoat.
My cheeks blaze with my humiliation. Why was I snuggling with his waistcoat?
He doesn’t look back at me as he sweeps out of my room, his shirt and waistcoat in hand, but my gaze certainly lingers on his wide bare back before my door slams shut.
I’m left blinking in his wake, wondering what the hell almost came over me when he was on my bed. I fall back on my pillows,my mortification growing tenfold as more memories from last night take shape in my mind. Shoving my face into my pillow, I mutter a wail, wishing there was some fae magic that could turn back time and let me erase the last several hours of my life.
Later that afternoon,we board a train to our next destination. Thankfully, my nausea has subsided and I was able to sleep until eleven-thirty. Which was thirty minutes past when we were supposed to leave for the station. I’ve also succeeded at avoiding William most of today. Even now as I settle into my train compartment, I’m awarded further respite, for William and Monty are in the next compartment over. With just me and Daphne, there’s ample space to laze about on the plush seats, each bench long enough to fit four passengers and upholstered in an indigo-and-silver brocade so fine I could almost convince myself I’m in some wealthy widow’s parlor. The walls are of rich oak and the windows are adorned in silk curtains to match the seats, drawn open to a view of the platform. The bustle of the station has died down, which tells me the train will soon depart.
