Page 49 of Brass
The bathroom pipes groan as water runs. I can picture him in there, hands braced on the sink, eyes closed as he practices whatever mental discipline keeps his walls intact. I wonder if he’s as tired of fighting this as I am.
A thought forms—rebellious, defiant, perfectly aligned with the pattern of our interactions since that first night. If he insists on martyring himself on the altar of his precious control, then maybe it’s time to take that option away.
Decision made, I ease myself off the bed, ignoring the twinge in my side. I gather the blankets from his neatly arranged pallet, then lay them out for myself. The thin carpet provides minimal cushioning against the hard floor, and I wince as I lower myself onto the makeshift bed.
It’s uncomfortable, but discomfort has been my constant companion since Jared’s murder. What’s one more night of physical hardship compared to the satisfaction of seeing Ryan’s reaction? Of finally forcing him to confront what’s building between us?
I position myself deliberately—blanket pulled up to my chest, eyes closed, breathing steady. The picture of peaceful sleep. The water stops running, the bathroom door handle turns, and I resist the urge to peek through my lashes.
The door opens, releasing a cloud of steam that carries his scent—soap and something distinctly masculine that makes my pulse quicken despite my best efforts. Footsteps pause, then approach slowly.
“What are you doing?” His voice is low, controlled, but with an edge I’m beginning to recognize—the sound of his patience fraying.
I open my eyes, feigning drowsiness. “Going to sleep.”
“On the floor.”
“Observant as always.”
His jaw tightens, the muscle there jumping in the way that signals mounting frustration. “Get in the bed, Celeste.”
“No.” I adjust the pillow beneath my head, wincing slightly as the movement pulls at my ribs. “You’ve been sleeping on floors for four nights. It’s my turn.”
“This isn’t a negotiation.” He stands over me, water droplets still clinging to his hair, his T-shirt stretched across shoulders that seem impossibly broad from this angle.
“You’re right. It’s not.” I meet his gaze directly. “Which is why I’m sleeping here, and you’re taking the bed.”
Something flashes behind his eyes—a dangerous spark that makes my heart beat faster. “Your ribs are injured. The floor will only make them worse.”
“My ribs are fine. You wrapped them yourself, remember?” The memory of his gentle hands against my skin sends heat curling through me. “Very thoroughly.”
His nostrils flare slightly. “This is childish.”
“No, what’s childish is your stubborn insistence on suffering needlessly.” I prop myself up on one elbow, ignoring the discomfort. “You need proper rest if you’re going to keep us both alive, don’t you? Isn’t that what you keep telling me—that your focus is paramount?”
Logic. His own logic turned against him. I watch the calculation happen behind those ice-blue eyes.
“Get in the bed.” This time it’s not a request. It’s an order, delivered in that commanding tone that does inexplicable things to my insides.
I raise an eyebrow, defiant. “Make me.”
For one breathless moment, I think he might actually do it—might physically lift me from the floor and place me on the bed. The possibility sends a shiver of anticipation through me that has nothing to do with the cool air against my skin.
Instead, he exhales slowly, deliberately, a man counting backward from ten in his mind.
“Fine.” The word is clipped, precise. “If you insist on being uncomfortable and aggravating your injuries, that’s your choice.”
He moves to the bed, sitting on the edge. The defeat is unexpected, unsatisfying. This isn’t how our pattern works. He’s supposed to push back, to maintain control, to insist.
“That’s it?” I can’t keep the surprise from my voice. “You’re just giving in?”
“I’m choosing my battles.” He doesn’t turn to look at me. “And this one isn’t worth fighting.”
Something about his acquiescence ignites a spark of anger in my chest. Days of tension, of carefully maintained distance, of pretending nothing is happening between us—and now he simply concedes?
I push myself to my feet, ignoring the protest from my ribs. “That’s bullshit.”
He turns then, eyebrow raised at my outburst. “Excuse me?”
