Page 26 of Shadowed Bond

“You’re going to eat properly this time,” he replies.

“Are you always this controlling about food?”

“Only when people are stupid enough to go on missions half-starved.” There is no teasing in his voice now.

I look at him, but he does not look at me. Instead, he pushes one of the takeaway cups towards me.

“Tea,” he says.

I blink. “You bought me tea?”

“You’re British.”

“So are you.”

“Yeah, but I’m not one of those weirdos who needs tea and shit. You, on the other hand, look like the type who needs tea.”

I should be offended, but he’s not wrong.

I take the cup, fingers wrapping around the warmth. “Thank you.” He grunts in response. “You are truly terrible at accepting gratitude. But really, thanks.” I mean it, too.

His gaze flicks to mine. For a moment, the heat from the shower, the smell of food, the rain against the window and the soft hum of the radiator all seem to fold inward, pressing us into the same small, impossible space.

His eyes drop, but before I can assess where they went, he looks away and steps back immediately, dragging a hand through his damp hair.

“I’m showering,” he says.

“That would be wise.”

“Eat.”

“You keep saying that as though I take orders from you.”

“You do. I’m in charge.” He grabs his clean clothes from his bag and stalks into the bathroom and slams the door behind him.

The sound echoes through the room. I shake my head. What an interesting man. There’s definitely more to him than the growls and grumpiness.

I stand here in the middle of the cheap hotel room, barefoot, damp-haired, holding the tea he bought me, staring at the closed bathroom door.

For several seconds, I do not move. Then, despite myself, I smile.

Only because he cannot see it.

By the time he’s out in sweatpants and a fitted white tee, I’ve eaten enough that he doesn’t complain. He eats quickly, scrolling through his phone before the lights are turned off and both of us are lying in our separate beds.

I should be asleep already. I’m exhausted.

My body aches from hours of walking, my hair still slightly damp against the pillow. The pattering rain against the window and the warmth of the room should be enough to drag me under, yet sleep refuses to come.

The space between our beds feels even smaller now that we’re both in bed, and although we are not touching, Ares is close enough that I can hear every subtle movement he makes.

I turn onto my other side for perhaps the fourth time, and Ares exhales sharply.

“Can you stop moving?” he mutters.

I stare into the dark, my back still to him. “I’m barely moving. You complain like even breathing inconveniences you.”

“It does when you’re doing it loudly beside me.”