Page 27 of Thrown into the Mob

“Mmmm.”

Our eyes locked on one another. “There are extra blankets in the closet,” he told me. “And a pillow.”

I understood what he was saying. Not that I had to take them back to my room. He didn’t need them, and he wasn’t inviting me into his bed. I tossed them on the carpet and covered myself. Despite the hard floor, I was more at ease here than in the comfortable bed next door.

Neither of us spoke again, and his breathing told me he was asleep as my eyes were closing.

For the first time in thirty-one years, the fire in my chest wasn't making me ache. Instead, it was comfortably warm.

FOURTEEN

MADD

I woke up to the muffled sound of someone’s breathing.

For three seconds I didn't know where I was. I was hugging a pillow that was too soft to be mine, and there was a dull throb in my shoulder. I shot up in bed thinking I was in that small room in the dragon compound, and I wanted out!

And then the memories flooded back. The escape from the compound, being wounded, my cousins, mating Conrad, and the apartment. And finally the man, the dragon shifter and my mate, who’d come into my room at two in the morning and slept on the carpet.

I leaned over the edge of the bed. Conrad was on his back with one arm across his chest and the blanket twisted around his legs. It was the first time I’d seen his face when it wasn’t riddled with tension. He’d unclenched his jaw, and his brow wasn’t wrinkled with worry. He appeared younger than his awake self, and I almost reached out to him. I hated that his life with his blood family hadn’t been the loving one I’d grown up with.

I told you. My wolf enjoyed pointing out when I’d been wrong.

Stop!

I got out of bed on the opposite side so I wouldn't step on my mate and went to the bathroom. The person reflected in the mirror had dark circles under his eyes and a graze held together with yarrow and gauze. On my good shoulder, there was a dragon-scale burn that marked me as Conrad's. It was warm, not from inflammation but as though the mark itself carried heat.

When I came out, Conrad was sitting up on the floor with his back against the bed. His hair was messy, and I was overcome with a desire to run my fingers through it.

“Morning.”

“Morning.” His husky voice combined with him rubbing his eyes suggested he wasn’t quite awake.

“Did you sleep?”

“Some.” He heaved himself up and folded the blanket.

Hmmm, he’d been taught or had learned to tidy up after himself. I was impressed.

But I needed to do something because our conversations were still at an awkward level.

“I’m going to attempt breakfast, but fair warning, I'm not Grandpa.”

“I can’t cook but I can wash dishes, though I need to brush my teeth first.”

Good hygiene, I noted.

The kitchen was better stocked than I'd realized. Eggs, bread, butter, vegetables, bacon, sausages, and four containers of Grandpa's cooking which would feed us for days. Someone must have done this as we were driving here.

I pulled out eggs, bacon, and a pan and looked for a spatula. Conrad appeared in the doorway. He'd brushed his hair and was wearing a clean pair of sweats.

He watched me crack eggs into a bowl. “Did your grandpa teach you to cook?”

“Yes. My family didn’t live here, but Grandpa would visit regularly. One of my most vivid childhood memories is being in our family kitchen and him teaching me.”

“I never learned because I was kept away from the kitchen. Father considered cooking beneath his children, and he’s not interested in food. He eats to live, not the other way around.”

“Oh, he’d never get along with Grandpa. Food is his version of a hug.” Not that they’d ever be buddies. “Why don’t you make the toast.”