“Your brother. Why is he in my living room?”
“He’s keeping watch.” I sit up, my back cracking. Rexton winces. Does he not like that? Too bad. It’s a human trait my mother bestowed upon me, one of the few I enjoy. Cracking is satisfying. “How do you feel?”
He looks better. He’s still not fully healed, but the skin around his wound is no longer red and inflamed. I gesture for him to sit up so I can look at his back. Rexton groans, then does as I command. His scars are prominent, but I’m no longer shocked by the sight of them. I focus on his wound.
“It looks good,” I say.
Rexton hums. “It feels better.”
We fall silent. What now? I don’t know how to be around Rexton.
Am I supposed to be mushy? Should I shower him in compliments and tell him how much I enjoyed sleeping beside him? Should I ask if he’s hungry? Should I do nothing at all?
I’ve never been in this situation.
“You look frightened,” Rexton says.
I shrug, climbing out of bed. David’s being loud, pattering around and probably snooping through things he shouldn’t be snooping through. I’ll ask him later if he found anything of interest.
“Go home!” I shout.
“You’re welcome!”
The noise from the living room vanishes. I turn back to Rexton. “I should leave to get ready for work.” I shift my weight from foot to foot. “I’ll see you later.”
I teleport to my apartment, already cursing myself. I’ve made things weird.
How should I act around Rexton while we’re at work? Should I act as I used to? The last time we were there, we openly hated one another. Well, I openly hated Rexton. He did his best to avoid me.
I publicly insulted him. I mocked his shadow form, and I brought up his parents’ abuse to win an argument. People are still icing me out because of it. I deserve it. After seeing his back and realizing just how horrible his family was, the memory of my insult makes me nauseous with self-disgust.
I had no idea what I was saying.
Do people already know we’re mated? Do they think I forced him into it? Probably. I’m the one who bit him, and he has yet to return the favor. They’ll think he’s a victim.
Is he?
My heart pounds, and I struggle to regulate my breathing as I rip off my clothing and change into something clean. I’m fully panicking; I’m aware of that. I can’t stop it, and I drag my hands through my hair as I focus on my furniture.
My rug is old, with ripped corners and frayed edges. I’ve always loved its simple pattern and hints of red woven throughout. It was one of the first pieces I purchased after moving out of my childhood home. The top drawer of my dresser is cracked open, as it usually is. I own too many pairs of underwear, which overfill the drawer. It rarely shuts.
I inhale through my nose, count to ten, then exhale through my mouth.
The mirror above my vanity is smudged. I touch it more than I should, and my fingerprints are scattered across the surface. It’s not a great look.
What will Rexton think when he sees it? His home was tidy. I try my best, but I live in clutter. Things are clean, but they aren’t neat. He might not want to live with me. He’s going to reject my offer.
People at work will hear about it. They’re going to laugh at me. They’ll enjoy hearing about Rexton rejecting me. They’ll talk about it behind my back.
Rexton appears. He’s in front of me in a heartbeat, soaking wet and hastily dressed, and he takes half a second to look me over before pulling me against his chest. Our bond is wide open, and I shrink into myself as I realize I’ve been sharing my panic with him.
I wiggle, trying to escape his grip.
“How did you get here?” I ask.
He shouldn’t be able to teleport into my bedroom, not smoothly. He doesn’t know the specific location, nor does he know the furniture layout. He can sure try—any demon can—but he has no idea where he’ll land. His entrance was too smooth, and it’s not a coincidence that he landed perfectly in front of me.
“I can feel you through the bond,” he says. “I followed it here.”
