Page 97 of Lovely Venom

“No.”

I’m not sure how he even knew what I was referring to, but it’s not a surprise. The way this man can read my mind is actually quite unnerving.

He finishes cleaning me up, then heads back into the bathroom to take care of himself. While he’s doing that, I grab a couple of waters from the fridge and down half of mine by the time he returns.

A fresh wave of uncertainty settles over me at the thought of what comes next. So naturally, I delay the inevitable by excusing myself to the bathroom.

I take my time washing up and brushing my teeth, but eventually, I run out of things to do. Then I reason that it can’t be that bad.

It’s only ten minutes.

When I re-enter the room, Bran is lying on the bed waiting for me.

I hover outside the bathroom door, feeling incredibly awkward when I realize I don’t know how to go about this.

“Come here,” he orders softly, relieving me from my internal struggle.

In circumstances like this, it’s easier when he just tells me what to do.

My heart picks up speed as I pad over to the bed and crawl toward him. But when I reach him, a new problem presents itself. Am I supposed to lie down? How close? I have no idea what he wants.

“I need direction,” I mumble.

“Here.” He pats the space beside him.

I swallow what feels like a golf ball in my throat and lie down. But before I can settle myself, he draws me closer, resting my head on his chest and stretching my arm across his waist.

I feel like I’m stiff as a board, but apparently not.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs.

“This was a bad idea.” I try to pull away, but he tightens his grip on me.

“Chantel.” He tips my gaze to his, warm fingers feathering over my jaw. “Just breathe.”

I don’t really want to, but I draw in an unsteady breath, mostly so I don’t die.

While I’m doing that, his palm sweeps the length of my back, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. Admittedly, it feels good, and he obviously knows it. He does it again, slowly massaging the tension from my muscles as he works his way back up.

“Have you ever done this before?” he asks.

There’s no judgment in his voice, but it’s still embarrassing to acknowledge that I haven’t. Rather than giving him a verbal answer, I shake my head, and he accepts that.

Searching for something to distract myself, I let my gaze wander the length of him. It’s at that point I notice he has another tattoo on his chest. It’s small, just four fine lines connected in a geometric shape. In this light, it’s difficult to see, which is how I must have missed it earlier. But I know he didn’t have it when we last met, and it makes me curious.

As I trace the lines with my finger, his hand on my back stills.

“What does it mean?” I ask.

A dry breath scrapes out of him. “Irony.”

“Really?”

Instead of explaining, he combs his fingers through my hair. It feels so good, my thoughts dissolve right along with my uncertainty.

He’s so warm and solid beneath me, and I can’t say that I hate it.

The quiet rhythm of his touch lulls me into a blissful, weightless headspace as my eyes grow heavier. Absently, I wonder if it’s been ten minutes, but I can’t find it in me to verbalize the question.