“I. Wasn’t. Having. A. Sex. Dream!” I insist, each word punctuated with a thwack of the pillow.
I hadn’t gotten that far yet.
“Whatever you say, Angel,” Donovan chuckles, grabbing at the pillow while the book he was holding drops to the floor.
“I hate you,” I growl, tugging on the pillow. “And I’m not an asshole!”
It becomes obvious he’s only toying with me on my chances of winning this tug of war when he pulls the pillow with a little more force, and I flop over his chest. I continue to hold on to the pillow on principle. It’s not conceding if I haven’t let go.
“Now, is that any way to talk to the guy that braved the girls’ bathroom and saved you from sleeping off your magic hangover on the tile floor?” he questions loftily, then his voice turns smarmy when he adds, “You can tell me. Did you imagine us slow and steamy or hot and wild?”
I imagined it with chocolate sauce.
“Not a sex dream!” I repeat, resisting the urge to punch him because that would mean forfeiting the battle for the pillow.
He raises one of his heavy black brows and whispers, “Why were you moaningthenand blushingnow?”
“I was not moaning!” I argue.Fuck, I hope I wasn’t moaning.“And I’m not blushing. I’m warm from all this…exertion.”
“I bet you are,” he replies wickedly and starts laughing again.
Deciding the pillow isn’t worth this continued contact with his extremely attractive muscled form, I let go, sit up, and commence busying myself by straightening my hair and clothes. I’m still wearing the same thing from school—sans socks and shoes.
As Donovan leans over the side of the bed to retrieve his book, he suggests over his shoulder, “It looks like you’re feeling better. You might want to message the others and let them know you’re okay. Connor has been a pain in the ass waiting for you to wake up. He’d be here if he didn’t have a test this afternoon that’s roughly twenty percent of his grade. I reminded him that flunking out of high school is bad, and you’d be pissed.”
Damn it. The mate bond. He must have felt everything. No wonder he’s freaking out.
Making a noise acknowledging that I heard him, I reach for my phone that’s on the nightstand. Sure enough, there are dozens of notifications. Most of them are discussing what happened based on what Felix could tell them, because they did, in fact, forget those five minutes. Then, there’s a lot of requests for updates from Connor on my state of being, until finally Donovan sends a picture of me sleeping alone in my bed, followed by—
Donovan:See. She’s fine. No, you shouldn’t ditch the rest of class to come over. Tell Felix that if he pops in one more time, I’ll rat him out to Ray and Keziah. Callie doesn’t need to wake up with all of us staring at her. Mildred will be back from Portland soon. I will tell you if anything changes. If you message me again, I will shut off my phone.
Connor doesn’t reply back. I’m guessing because he doesn’t want Donovan to shut off his phone. However, there are follow-up messages from the others.
Nolan:Keep us posted.
Kaleb:Let us know if you need anything.
The last message was sent about twenty minutes ago. I send a quick text to the group that I’m awake, I’m okay, and that there’s nothing to worry about. Immediately, I get a private text back from Connor.
Connor:Need me to come over?
I glance over at Donovan, who is back to reclining against the headboard and reading some book that looks ancient. He winks at me when he notices me looking at him. I stick my tongue out in response.
Yeaaah. Considering my current state, I don’t think Connor would appreciate coming over. Sensing how hot and bothered I am right now with Donovan might dampen his ‘take care of the girl’ vibe.
Pushing down my guilt, I quickly message back.
Me:No, it’s fine. My aunt will be home soon, and I want to talk to her about what happened. One-on-one.
Connor responds back simply, “Okay.” Which, of course, gives me no indication on what he’s feeling or if he believes me.
In the group chat, the others repeat the general, “Text us if you need us.” Kaleb offers to pick up my books and homework. I’m unsure if they’re pretending it’s totally fine that I passed out in the girls’ bathroom in an effort to make me feel better about my outburst, or if my crazy shit has become so common they’ve gotten used to my magical exploits.
I set my phone back down on the nightstand, and while trying not to fidget, I casually inquire, “What are you reading?”
Donovan sighs and runs a hand through his hair, glaring at the pages. “A reprint of a handwritten journal in the most illegible French possible. It details first-hand accounts of the ‘mystical arts’ performed in the American Deep South about three hundred years ago.” He closes the book and rubs at his eyes, muttering, “The problem is, I can’t tell if it’s important or just human bullshit.”
“New one or from the original haul?” I inquire, pushing my hair behind my ears.
