Page 99 of Bound By Fury

Maybe for some girls, Malachi’s shirt would fit more like a dress, more like the man’s shirt on the hot blonde in a rom-com, but on me it fits just right. My chest and curves fill it out enough so that it falls only halfway down my butt.

When I slide off my jeans, I’m thankful that I’m wearing a newer pair of black lace underwear. Then I slip the silk scrunchie from my wrist and pull my curls into a large bun at the top of my head before turning to face him.

His eyes are smoldering in the low light, engulfing me, devouring the sight of me in his shirt and barely anything else. It is a raw, dangerous feeling, the burning inside me. Ignited by his gaze, by the tension between his brows, by the bulge of his biceps through his sweater as he crosses his arms against his chest, by the warmth of his body crowding mine.

His voice is smoke and gravel. “Get in the bed.”

“I—What?”

He reaches past me and pulls back the covers. “You’re hurt, it’s late, and it’s clearly not safe for you tonight. I just—I’ll feel better with you here where I can keep an eye on you.”

“But. I—We—” I stutter, backing up a step.

He huffs out an impatient breath. “Get in the bed, Harper.”

Maybe it’s the fact that he’s right, the cloaked figure could be anywhere. And, secretly, there’s no way I’d ever fall asleep alone right now. Maybe it’s the leftover effects of the beer and the light fuzziness that remains in my head. Maybe it’s the addictive feeling of being back where I always thought I belonged. But once again, I do as he says. Because even if I hate him, he still feels like he’s mine, even if it hurts.

He clears his throat as I climb into the bed. The sheets are cool against my too-warm skin, and I could cry at the relief of finally letting my body relax.

I listen to Malachi as he moves around the room. To the sounds of him brushing his teeth. Picking my clothes off the floor.

When a spell of silence stretches a bit too long, I glance behind me.

He’s hardly visible save for the way the closet light illuminates his body with horizontal slashes through the slats in the accordion doors. His arms are stretched above his head, the muscles of his bare back rippling as he pulls on a long sleeve shirt. The obsidian swirls of his tattoos stretch along his sides and up his spine.

My mouth grows dry at the sight of him.

As he pulls the shirt down to his waist, he begins to turn, and I startle, my heart hammering in my chest as I jerk back toward the window and urge my breathing to slow.

Minutes later, the weight of his body lowers the edge of the mattress, and I roll slightly, watching as he slips off his prosthesis and the silicone liner underneath, setting them within arm’s reach. He carefully lotions and massages the red pressure lines that lessen as his hands work against the otherwise pale skin. His profile is pensive, and he is methodical, but when he’s done, he finally slides into the bed next to me.

I turn my head and meet his gaze.

“Try to get some sleep,” he says, his fingers running down the side of my face and across my chin, and my cheeks warm beneath his touch. “In the morning I’ll recheck your wounds and walk you to your room.”

I watch the way his mouth moves. “Okay.”

I can feel my heartbeat everywhere.

Eyes lingering on the curve of my lips. “Okay.”

When he finally flips over, facing the other direction, I do the same. But the bed is small, so we sleep with our backs flush to each other. It’s not long before our breathing falls into sync. I can feel his heartbeat against my own, and though impossible, I swear that the tempos of our pulses are the same.

In the morning, swallows sing outside the window, and motes dance through the honey light like lightning bugs.

I stretch my arms above my head and groan against the aches threading through my body, realizing a second too late that this is not my bed, nor my room. That the skin pulls uncomfortably on my back and arm. That I spent last night with the boy I’ve grown to hate. That I was almost killed. That someone here knows about my power. That the ghosts of the scorned witches betrayed me.

When I roll over, I find an empty, cool space where Kai should be. I prop myself up on my elbow, rubbing the sleep from my eyes as I search for him.

He’s sitting at his desk, typing something into his phone when he realizes I’m awake, all emotion from last night long gone.

“They sent out a notice to everyone on campus,” he says, his voice flat as he meets my eyes. “They found a body.”

THIRTY-TWO

We deeply regret to inform students that this morning at 6:37 a.m., the body of Fiona Beaumont was found just off the northern trail of campus. Please limit your time spent outside of designated gathering locations. Police will be continuing to investigate, and we’ll have counselors available for students starting this afternoon. Email your advisor to set up an appointment.

Thank you for your cooperation. Our thoughts and prayers are with the Beaumont family during this difficult time.