Page 24 of His Fury

Something guarded.

I scoffed, rolling onto my back and staring at the ceiling. “I wasn’t staring.” When he said nothing, I turned my head to look at him.

His smirk was slow, lazy. Unfairly attractive. “No?” He stretched, muscles flexing, my mouth watered, and I had to restrain myself from reaching out for him. “Seemed like it to me.”

I huffed. “I was thinking.”

He rolled onto his side, propping his head up with his hand, looking down at me. “About?”

I hesitated. What did I say? The truth? You. Or did I lie and tell him it wasn’t him? Not this. Not how easy it felt to be here even when it shouldn’t be.

I swallowed. “About how much I regret you taking me out of the shower before my hair was washed.” I picked up a tangled strand of hair for emphasis.

Zayn chuckled, but his voice was low and smug when he called me on my bullshit. “Liar.”

I clenched my jaw, glaring at the ceiling. I hated how well he knew me. I loathed the fact that, now that he was awake, he would ask me questions. The questions he hadn’t asked me last night.

I should have snuck out when I had the chance. I sat up abruptly, pushing the sheets off me. “I should go.”

Zayn didn’t move. Didn’t stop me. But his voice was calm, even, unwavering. “We need to talk about it, Is.”

I froze. He didn’t say it like a demand. Didn’t say it like an order. It was an invitation.

A choice.

I turned slightly, meeting his gaze. I didn’t see the cold, calculating man who had come and taken me from a hostage situation but rather the man who held me as I fell apart. Thatmight possibly have been more dangerous than anything else.

I shook my head, swallowing hard. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Standing, I grabbed the towel from the night before, wrapping myself in it and wishing it was something more substantial. Bulletproof armor came to mind.

“You need to talk about it,” he said evenly, his voice carrying that same unshakable calm that sometimes unnerved me. “I need to know what he said. I also need to speak to Julian, and I am sure you would like to say a few things to him too.”

“I have nothing to say to him,” I snapped, pushing myself off the bed.

I heard him move, and I looked back over my shoulder. He was sitting up, his forearms resting on his knees, the sheet barely covering him. He looked so inviting. His dark hair was a mess from sleep, his skin warm with residual heat, and his eyes—those goddamn piercing eyes—locked on to mine.

And he knew.

He must have seen it on my face, must have recognized the hesitation I was too tired to hide, because his smirk was slow, knowing, and devastating.

He lifted the edge of the sheet. “You can come back in here if you want?”

God, I wanted.

I wanted it so badly that I hated myself for it.

I wanted to sink back into the warmth of his bed, press against his bare chest, and let him pull me into that easy, comforting embrace I’d let myself drown in last night. I wanted to let go of everything outside of this room—the fear, the anger, and the truth that was clawing its way up my throat.

I shook my head, ignoring the disappointment that flashed through his eyes for half a second before it was gone. “We’ve played that game, remember?” I murmured, my voice softer now. “Didn’t work out so well.”

I turned quickly, walking toward the bathroom, needing to break his gaze before I broke something inside me.

The bathroom door didn’t have a lock.

It didn’t need one.

I knew, despite everything and the events of last night, he wouldn’t follow me in here, not after what I’d said outside.

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