Page 38 of Embrace

Shit.

With my head on his chest, I can hear the steady rhythm of his heart. One of his arms rests low on my back, and the other is on his stomach, his hand on top of mine. I’ve managed to press myself on every hard part of his body, sprawled across him like I have a right.

My gaze drifts to his thighs, where the sheet only covers half of him. A skull, a red snake, a dragon—his tattoos travel down his thigh, breathing fire that ribbons around his kneecap. I’m mid-inspection, fingers already twitching to reach down and sneak the hem of his boxers higher to reveal more designs, when I realize what I’m doing.

You’re supposed to be fixing your reputation, Scarlett, not showing him why you got it.

From the steady breaths blowing in my hair, I know he hasn’twoken up yet, and I take that as my only way out of this. I curse my body for betraying me, or my brain for craving the closeness I’ve always run from.

I slip my hand from under Kian’s and lift my head off his chest while praying he doesn’t wake up. I don’t want him to think I’m taking advantage of our deal, especially after he was so vulnerable last night.

Kian wouldn’t think that.

The voice in my head isn’t loud enough for me to believe it. I’m scooting away when his chain knots with my necklace. The thick silver chain engulfs my dainty one.

“Fuck,” I curse under my breath, trying to see where the necklaces are caught and trying my best not to touch him. I try to find the clasp of my necklace, but just as I catch it between my fingers, Kian moves. He shifts onto his side, and when his arm touches me, his gaze snaps open and he startles like a deer in headlights.

“Oh shit, did I—” he jerks back, yanking me right with him as my necklace digs into the back of my neck. I try to keep it from breaking by following him, letting myself go into nearly the same position I tried so hard to get out of. But this time our faces are inches apart, and he’s blinking in confusion.

“Necklace,” I croak, pointing to where they’re still knotted. The dang thing almost lobbed my head clean off my body, yet it’s still not letting go of his.

Kian’s brows rise, and I watch his face turn serious, his tongue slightly peeking out from his lips as he untangles us. The moment I’m free, I pull all the way back, putting a respectable distance between us.

Kian wears a mischievous grin. “So did you not like your serial killer bed as much as you claimed?”

“Maybe I was trying to be a gracious host.”

“Ah, my mistake. You were just trying to keep me warm then?” His eyes nearly twinkle with amusement.

“You were shivering all alone on that hard floor. I took one for the team when your teeth started chattering.”

His laugh is low, still deep with sleep, and I catch the shape of his mouth. The lazy curve of his pink lips and his white teeth. Then lower, to his inked body, different shapes and swirls everywhere.

“Which one’s your favorite?” he asks suddenly.

I straighten. “What?”

“My tattoos? You’ve been staring at my chest the whole time,” he says matter-of-factly. “So which one’s your favorite?”

“Don’t you think it would be unfair for me to judge when I’m only seeing half of them? You wanna show me the rest?” I glance at his shorts.

He blushes. He actually fucking blushes. Scarlett one, Kian zilch.

I toss him his shirt, and he pulls it on. Then he wordlessly moves to help me make my bed and fold the sheets he—well,we—used.

“I’m sorry about last night,” I say, quieter now, the words getting caught somewhere between us as we fold the sheets together. “I know how much it would’ve meant to see your mom.”

Kian shrugs, the motion subtle, muscles shifting under skin. “It’s fine.” He comes closer, handing me the edge of the sheet, lingering there. “Kiyomi’s got enough going on. She’s a nurse so her hours are crazy, and then she comes home and takes care of Mom. I don’t want to add to it.”

“I don’t know…” I glance at him, our chests nearly touching. “I think you’d be a big help. I bet your mom would love it.”

Kian’s eyes soften for half a second before he lies flat on the bed, staring up at the water-stained ceiling. “It’s hard to know what my mom wants. She’s unpredictable. One minute, she’s calling to tell me how proud she is, how I’m her favorite person on the planet. Next, she can’t even remember my name and she’s disappeared altogether.”

His hand drags across his chest, fingers ghosting over the silver chain resting against his collarbone.

“The dementia makes her forget she has people who care. She gets stuck in these cycles—and looking at me? It’s too much for her.”

“Why?” My throat tightens, a lump forming before I can swallow it down. I know that type of grief, the kind that’s for people who are still alive.