Despite everything, the attack, the loss, the impossible situation, Hazel felt a laugh bubble up. It came out slightly hysterical, but it was still a laugh.
Something close to a laugh moved through him in the darkness. “Get some sleep, Hazel.”
She lay on her back, arms at her sides, staring at the ceiling. Marcus did the same, the mattress dipping under his weight, both of them fighting the slow slide toward center. Between them, Azrael purred.
“Goodnight,” she said into the dark.
“Night,” he said back.
Neither of them moved. Neither of them slept.
Outside, wind rustled through pine trees. The strengthened wards hummed a low bass note that Hazel felt more than heard.
She counted ceiling beams. Got to seven. Lost count because his breathing changed, and she held hers to listen.
Azrael purred between them.
14
The first thingMarcus noticed upon waking was warmth.
Not the ambient warmth of autumn sunlight filtering through thin curtains, or even the accumulated heat of shared blankets. This was the specific warmth of Hazel Wickwood pressed against his side, her hand splayed across his chest, her breath a soft rhythm against his neck.
He lay perfectly still, cataloging the situation with the detached analysis of a lawyer reviewing evidence. Her hair tickled his jaw, wild curls that smelled of lavender shampoo: that scent that had haunted him for twelve days. Her breath puffed against his skin in slow, even intervals. One of her legs had tangled with his during the night, bare skin warm against his pajama pants. Her fingers curled loosely over his heart, as if she’d reached for him in sleep and found exactly what she was looking for.
Azrael had abandoned his post as furry chaperone, now curled on a towel by the kitchenette. The traitor.
Marcus should move. Extract himself before she woke and they had to navigate the minefield of morning-after-nothing-happened awkwardness. But her hand flexed against his chest,fingers spreading across bare skin, and his resolve crumbled like wet paper.
“Don’t go,” she murmured, still mostly asleep. Her voice was rough with dreams, barely a whisper.
Marcus held absolutely still.
She nuzzled closer, her lips brushing his collarbone. “S’warm.”
He tried again to ease away, but her arm tightened across his chest, holding him in place with surprising strength for someone still half-asleep.
“Five more minutes,” she mumbled into his shoulder.
“Hazel.” He kept his voice low, gentle. “You need to wake up.”
She made a protesting sound, something between a groan and a whimper. Then she stretched, a full-body movement that pressed every soft curve against him, her back arching, her leg sliding higher on his thigh. She went rigid.
Her eyes snapped open, meeting his from inches away. For a moment, neither moved. Pink flooded from her chest to her hairline. Then her eyes widened as she registered his body’s natural morning response pressed against her hip.
“This is…” she started.
“Azrael’s fault,” Marcus said quickly, even though the familiar was twenty feet away and had clearly given up on them hours ago.
They separated slowly, deliberately, like two people defusing a bomb. Hazel scooted to the far edge of the bed, all six inches of space the small mattress allowed. Marcus sat up and ran a hand through his hair, willing his body into submission.
“I’ll make coffee,” he said, needing distance.
“I’ll…” She gestured vaguely toward the bathroom. “Yeah.”
He escaped to the kitchenette and focused on the ritual of making coffee in the ancient machine. Measure the grounds. Fill the reservoir. Realize he’d put the grounds in the waterreservoir. Start over. Simple tasks. Behind him, the bathroom door clicked shut. The shower turned on.
Marcus braced his hands on the counter and focused on breathing.
