“Thank you,” she said. “For getting us out.”
“That’s my job.”
“No.” She looked up at him. “That was more than your job. You got us out of there alive when six trained specialists were trying to kill us. That was you. So thank you.”
His face softened. “You’re welcome.”
Then Azrael meowed pointedly from the bed.
“Right,” Hazel said, stepping back. “Bedtime.”
The bedtime routinewas awkward as hell.
They took turns in the bathroom that was barely large enough for one person. The shower was a trickle of lukewarmwater; the mirror was so spotted with age that Hazel could barely see her reflection. She went first, brushing her teeth and splashing water on her face, trying not to think about the sleeping arrangements waiting outside.
When she emerged in her thin sleep shirt and cotton shorts, the only sleepwear she’d managed to grab, Marcus was standing by the window with his back to her, shoulders rigid with tension.
“Your turn,” she said.
He nodded without looking at her and disappeared into the bathroom. The sound of running water filled the silence, along with Hazel’s thundering heartbeat.
When he came out wearing only pajama pants, Hazel forgot how to form words.
She’d seen him in various states of undress over the past eleven days: shirt sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, that one morning when he’d been doing pushups. But this was different. This was Marcus prepared for bed, sleep-warm and unguarded, barefoot on the worn wooden floor. The demon marks on his chest caught the dim light, dark lines that traced across his skin like living tattoos. He was moving careful and controlled, like he was trying very hard not to notice her noticing him.
“So,” she said, her voice pitched a fraction too high. “Bed.”
“Bed,” he agreed, not moving.
They stood on opposite sides of the narrow room, separated by three feet of space that felt like three inches.
“This is ridiculous,” she muttered and stalked to the left side of the bed. Azrael cracked one eye open, assessed the situation, and refused to move.
Marcus approached the right side like he was approaching a bomb. “Ground rules.”
“Ground rules are good.”
“Stay on your side.”
“Obviously.”
“No stealing covers.”
“I’m not a cover thief.”
“No…” He paused. “No cuddling.”
Heat flooded her cheeks. “I wasn’t planning to cuddle.”
“Good. Neither was I.”
They climbed into bed like they were handling explosives. Azrael opened both golden eyes now, assessed the situation with obvious judgment, and somehow managed to take up even more space despite being the size of a house cat. Hazel ended up pressed against the wall, Marcus clinging to the edge on the opposite side, the cat sprawled luxuriously between them.
The mattress was old, soft in the middle, which meant they both rolled slightly toward the center. Hazel caught herself before she made contact, bracing one hand against the sagging middle to hold her position.
“This mattress is trying to kill us,” she muttered.
“Noted.” Marcus shifted, trying to find a position that didn’t involve sliding into her. “I’ll add it to the list of things attempting murder this week.”
