Page 74 of A Sweet Destruction

Hours later, we were standing in a comfortable room at an inn, after a little too much whiskey and a scarily lighthearted conversation about me and Ford being literal criminals—I was right, it had been Elijah and Caspian with Roger, who apparently had revealed our identities the first second he’d been asked. I would have been a little hurt, if I wasn’t acquainted with Elijah’s charm.

I was sure he made several credible and eloquent threats against Roger’s life.

Even his parting words to us that night, burdened with the task of showing us to our accommodations seemed vaguely threatening. “Sleep well,” as if we were staring down the endless sleep of death.

Chapter 17

Ford

All things considered, everything was going surprisingly well.

Making it through the night alive and with all my limbs in tact chief among them. There was also the fact that I’d awoken pleasantly warm, with Esme curled next to me despite us occupying a large, plush bed.

Our accommodations were quite nice. I treat my guests well, Caspian had said before heading into the suite of rooms on the other side of the inn. It was Elijah who had actually walked each of us to the door, parting with a not-so-subtle threat that we were not to leave.

Esme had spent the better part of twenty minutes regaling all the ways it was incredibly ridiculous and honestly childish that we were stuck here, unable to debrief the night with everyone.

I had managed to pull a small smile out of her when I reminded her that we could speak to each other, unless of course she preferred to hold a cup to the wall and try to talk to Freya or Bellamy.

Two days ago, she probably would have done just that. Instead, she flopped down in one of the sitting chairs tucked in the corner and decided that I was good enough for the night.

Progress.

The more we talked, the more we settled in and realized that we’d noticed much of the same thing.

Caspian being a pretentious little asshole. Esme had said young and immature but I preferred my description. What Esme failed to notice what how often his gaze drifted to her or his little smile when he caught me staring daggers at him. He had to know it was a dangerous game to play, provoking a paranima like that.

Maybe Elijah told him you had your head up your ass, the Bond grumbled at me. For all Esme complained that it ruined her life, it was her number-one defender—when it came to me, at least.

I’d already become well-acquainted with its ability to shriek its head off when it was displeased. Whatever Esme may have done to suppress it, not acknowledging it for as long as I had was clearly a more serious crime.

It only calmed down when I made it clear I agreed with it.

Elijah was still somewhat of a mystery. A cousin to the Prince, we’d learned, but clearly something more than that. There were a few times I’d noticed Caspian was a little slow to respond, as if he expected someone else to speak for him. Was it his mother the queen he was waiting for, or Elijah?

Still much to learn. I could tell that Soren was cautiously optimistic, but I still couldn’t quite shake that warning they’d sent after they burned down our camp. The Bridge will be ours.

Those were the words of an aggressor, not someone motivated by peace.

When I’d mentioned the same to Esme, she said it was just as probable that those words came from a place of fear, like a caged animal snapping at everything that came near it.

She was acting similarly, though I wouldn’t be the one to point that out. As evidenced by the fact that when it came time to go to bed, all the comfort we’d built while sitting together and casually talking—enough that she accepted a cup of tea I’d made her without comment—vanished into thin air.

It took effort to hide my smile, understanding her quips and grumbles for what they were, as she stomped around the room preparing for bed. Then it was my turn to grow quiet when it dawned on me that we’d be sharing this bed together. There was something much more sterile about a tent and a barrack.

This was…romantic. I’d had a hell of a time keeping certain thoughts away before and I wasn’t so sure I was going to have much luck doing the same now. Especially when Esme walked out of the bathroom with her brown eyes bright and lips shining.

I called out for strength to anyone who would listen, with only the Bond choosing to respond. Entirely unhelpful, of course. Encouraging, even.

It had taken over an hour for me to fall asleep, though once I did, I slept more deeply than I had in years. And now, she was comfortably curled into my side, her soft breaths pulsing against my arm.

The tip of her nose was no more than half an inch away from my skin. I’d shamelessly flexed my arm just to see whether the movement would cause that space to disappear. Close, so close the negative space between us felt like torture.

Probably for the best, especially since Esme was likely to wake up the second we touched.

Instead, I settled for heaving breaths of desperate air and trying not to think about how cute Esme probably looked, tucked behind her hands like a little cat.

After a few minutes, I lost the battle and turned my head to look at her, finding her waking slowly.