Third, the weight or an arm still draped across her waist, heavy and possessive even in sleep.
Edie opened her eyes.
Grey morning light filtered through curtains she didn't recognize. The ceiling above her was unfamiliar—no water stains, no glow-in-the-dark stars she'd stuck up in a moment of whimsy. Just clean white paint and perfectly even edges.
Right. Tarmek's room.
She turned her head carefully, trying not to wake him.
He was still asleep.
She'd never seen him sleep before. Awake, he was all tension and control, every muscle held in readiness like he expected an attack at any moment. But unconscious, some of that rigidity melted away. His face was softer in sleep, the permanent furrow between his brows smoothed out. His mouth was slightly parted. His hair had escaped its usual tie and spread across the pillow in dark waves.
He looked younger, almost vulnerable.
Almost being the operative word, because even relaxed, he was still massive. Still clearly dangerous. His shoulders alone took up half the bed, and the arm pinning her in place could probably bench-press a small car.
She should find that intimidating. She should feel trapped and claustrophobic. She didn't.
Instead, she found herself cataloguing details she hadn't noticed last night. The scar through his eyebrow, faded to a pale line against his olive skin. The smaller scars scattered across his knuckles—hockey injuries, probably. The way his chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, deep and even and peaceful.
This is a mistake.
Not the sex. The sex had been fantastic, possibly the best of her life, and definitely something she wanted to repeat at the earliest opportunity. No, the mistake was this. Staying. Watching him sleep like some kind of lovesick teenager.
She didn't do this. She didn't let herself get attached to people or places or the way someone looked in the early morning light.
Attachment meant roots. Roots meant permanence. Permanence meant being stuck in one place long enough for everything to fall apart, the way it always did, the way it had with her family and every foster home after and every relationship she'd tried to build.
Better to leave first. Better to stay in motion. Better to keep things light and casual and temporary.
Except.
Except the way he'd looked at her last night, like she was someone precious rather than someone passing through. Except the way he'd touched her—not just with hunger, but with attention. Studying her responses with the same obsessive focus he probably brought to hockey plays.
She'd had enthusiastic lovers. She'd never had a meticulous one.
Every sigh she made, he noted. Every shiver, he catalogued. When she reacted to something, he didn't just do it again. He refined it, experimenting with pressure and speed and angle until he found the exact combination that made her lose her mind.
It was methodical. It was intense. It was absolutely devastating.
He pays attention to my body like it's game tape he's studying,she'd thought at one point, delirious with pleasure.Like there's going to be a test later and he's determined to get an A.
She'd laughed at the absurdity of it, and he'd actually paused to ask what was funny. She'd tried to explain, still giggling, something about hockey analogies and graded performances, and he'd gotten this look on his face.
Half offended, half intrigued, entirely focused.
"You think this is funny?" he asked.
"A little."
"I'll change that."
And then he'd proceeded to do exactly that, with the same relentless precision he applied to everything else, until laughing was the last thing on her mind.
Mistake,her brain insisted.This is a mistake. I'm getting attached. I'm going to regret this when this is just another town in my rearview mirror.
But a quieter, more dangerous part of her whispered something else.What if I didn't have to leave?
