Page 72 of Bride of Death
Am I dreaming?It feels hotter than usual. Even more defined, too.
Hades is always tense, his abdomen a playground for my hands.
But this landscape is slightly different. There’s no thin trail of hair beneath the belly button to tempt my fingertips downward. Instead, it’s all smooth, toned skin.
“Sera,” a deep, growly voice rumbles against my ear. “If you go any lower, I cannot be held accountable for my response.”
I slowly lift my head away from the pillow—er, masculine chest—and gape up at Maliki. “Oh!” I yank my hand away, and he visibly shudders.
Which isn’t just visible, actually. I feel it against my leg.
Because my thigh is wedged between his.
My eyes widen as I try to untangle our limbs.
He grabs my hip just before I tip backward off the bed.
Because yeah, I overcompensated and nearly sent myself to the floor.
I wince, then go to bury myself in my pillow.
Which is just Maliki’s chest.
“Thorns,” I breathe.
“No, just Maliki,” he returns. “In a very itchy sweater.”
I peek up at him and realize said sweater is pushed up all the way to his neck. Because I apparently made a bed out of his bare chest.
My eyes close, and I slowly roll away from him this time. Cloth whispers beside me, likely a result of him fixing his sweater. After a beat of silence follows, I open my eyes again, as I assume it’s safe.
And find him now shirtless in the bed.
I gape at the delicious display of muscle before forcing myself to look up at his face. “Do shirts just offend you or something?” I blurt out. “You never seem to wear them.”
One dark brow inches upward. “I’ve been in that itchy sweater for far longer than I care to admit, all because I didn’t want to wake you. So yeah, that sweater does offend me. Particularly as I’ve been choking on it since you tried to push it over my head while sleeping on me.”
My cheeks burn in response to everything he just said. “Oh. Um. Sorry?”
He grasps my chin between his thumb and finger, his gaze intent as he stares down at me. “Don’t ever apologize for trying to disrobe me, trouble. I really don’t mind.”
With that unexpected pronouncement, he releases me and rolls off the bed to his feet in a deft motion that makes me a little jealous. “I’m going to make breakfast. How do you feel about crepes?”
“Breakfast?” I repeat, feeling dumb. Or just confused. Yeah, I prefer confused.
“You slept for over twelve hours,” he murmurs. “So yes, breakfast. Crepes?”
I don’t know what crepes are, but I nod anyway. Because my stomach is growling. I’m warm and tingly everywhere. And I’m feeling a bit bewildered.
So breakfast would be good.
Because it would mean Maliki is giving me some space to process what just happened.
“Thank you,” I whisper. I voice the gratitude in response to him leaving me alone for a minute, but the words feel weighted, like I mean them for so much more.
And I realize I do.
Because I asked him to stay for a few minutes, my need to just be held overriding my pride.
