Page 54 of Fat Sold Mate
“We should sleep,” he says finally. “Long drive tomorrow.”
The prospect of sharing the bed suddenly looms large between us. James hesitates, then pulls back the covers on the side furthest from me.
“I don't bite,” he says, attempting levity that falls flat.
“I seem to recall evidence to the contrary,” I reply before I can stop myself, then feel heat rush to my face as I realize the implication. The cave. The marks his teeth left on my shoulder, my neck.
James goes very still, his expression unreadable. Through the bond, I feel a flash of something dark and hungry before he suppresses it ruthlessly.
“Ruby—” he begins, then stops, apparently at a loss for words.
“Forget I said anything,” I mutter, sliding under the covers on my side of the bed. “I'm exhausted.”
He follows suit, lying rigid beside me, careful to maintain a strip of neutral territory between our bodies. The silence stretches, broken only by the hum of the ancient air conditioner and the occasional passing car outside.
Sleep hovers just out of reach despite my bone-deep weariness. I'm acutely aware of James beside me—the rhythm of his breathing, the heat radiating from his body, the subtle shift of his weight as he adjusts position. The bond between us pulses with shared consciousness, neither of us able to fully relax in such proximity.
“Why did you pull away?”
The question comes just as I'm finally drifting toward sleep, James's voice quiet but clear in the darkness. I don't pretend to misunderstand.
“What?”
“Two months ago,” he clarifies. “After the League attack. We were... getting closer. Then suddenly you wouldn't even look at me.” The hurt in his voice sounds genuine, surprising me with its rawness. “What happened?”
I stare at the water stain on the ceiling, heart thudding painfully against my ribs. Of all the conversations to have now, this wasn't one I'd prepared for.
“I overheard you,” I say finally, the words bitter on my tongue. “With your friends. Laughing about… about someone's size.”
About my size. About me.
James shifts beside me, turning to face my profile, though I keep my gaze fixed upward. “What? When?”
“Outside the rebuilding site. The day after we...” I swallow hard, unwilling to name the kiss we'd shared, the first tentative acknowledgment of whatever was growing between us. “I heard you. You were laughing. You—you said some awful stuff, James. And I’m pretty sure it was about me.”
James is silent for a long moment, and I can practically hear him sorting through memories, trying to place the conversation. “Ruby, I don't—”
“Don't deny it,” I interrupt, hurt, making my voice sharper than intended. “I heard you. I wasn't meant to, obviously, but I did.”
“I'm not denying anything,” he says slowly. “I just don't remember ever having that conversation. Especially not about—” He audibly swallows. “Not about you. I don’t think about you… like that. I never have. I swear to you, I don’t remember that.”
The incredulity in his voice stings worse than outright admission would have. I turn away, presenting my back to him.
“Just forget it, James. It doesn't matter now,” I mutter. “If you can’t even remember it, I think that’s worse.”
“The hell it is,” he argues, a hand hovering over my shoulder before withdrawing without making contact. “Ruby, I would never—”
A sound from outside freezes us both—the crunch of gravel under careful footsteps, too deliberate to be a random motel guest. James is immediately alert, shifting to a crouch on the bed, eyes fixed on the window.
“It’s them,” he whispers, nostrils flaring as he scents the air. “At least three of them.”
Terror jolts through me, momentarily displacing all other emotions. “How did they find us?”
“Doesn't matter,” James says grimly, already moving toward our packs. “We need to go. Now.”
I follow his lead, cramming the journal and grimoire into my bag with shaking hands. Through the thin curtains, shadows move across the parking lot—approaching our room with predatory purpose.
“The door—” I begin.
