“But—”
“Sleep, Sloane. There will be time for everything else.”
I want to argue. I want to reach for him, return what he just gave me. But exhaustion is pulling me under—not just physical, but emotional.
I said I loved him and then had the best orgasm of my life…and we haven’t even kissed yet. He didn’t say he loved me in return—but said it with his hands, with his patience, with the way he’s holding me right now like I’m the most precious thing in his world.
I fall asleep with a smile plastered across my face.
Chapter Seventeen
Jonus
Asoft knock on the bedroom door pulls me from a dead sleep.
It’s still dark outside.
I lie still for a second, assessing. It’s not the sharp two-raps-then-one of a security alert. This knock is deliberate and quiet. Someone who doesn’t want to wake Sloane.
I extract myself from her carefully. She murmurs and reaches for the warm space I’ve left behind, her fingers grasping at the sheets. My chest aches at the small, unconscious gesture, as if even in sleep she can’t stand to be apart from me.
After last night, my hands on her body, her voice breaking on my name, her telling me she loves me…I should be at peace. Instead, I’ve been lying awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, my mind racing in circles I can’t seem to break.
She said she loves me. And I said nothing back.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I pull on a shirt and open the door.
Garlen stands in the dark hallway. No tablet, no phone, just my cousin in sleep pants and a bare chest, looking at me with those steady, serious eyes that remind me he’s the smartest orc I’ve ever known. “We need to talk,” he whispers. “Alone.”
I glance back at Sloane, still asleep, her auburn hair spread across my pillow. Then I nod and follow him.
We move silently through the dark house, past the kitchen, to the basement door. Garlen opens it and leads the way down. The stairs creak under our combined weight.
The basement is different now. The cage is gone as are the chains. The reinforced walls remain, but the space has been transformed into storage and a workshop. Garlen’s overflow of books lines one wall. There’s a workbench where he tinkers with carpentry projects — he built Zoe’s bookshelf down here last month.
But I remember helping drag my cousin down these stairs, wild and snarling, his tusks fully extended, his eyes seeing nothing but red. I remember the sound of chains locking into place, the heavy steel door of the cage slamming shut. I sat in a chair in this exact space for hours, watching Garlen pace and howl for Ellie while I tried to keep him calm.
There are two chairs I suspect Garlen set up for us earlier.
We sit.
My cousin leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I know what happened last night.”
I stiffen. “How?—”
“I scented the change in both of you this morning when I knocked on your door. I’m not judging you. I’m asking if you’re okay.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You look like you haven’t slept.”
“I haven’t.”
“Because?”
I rub at my face. “Because she told me she loves me and I didn’t say it back.”
