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It seems like such a small word, for what I feel for him. Juvenile, almost. Love is something soft and warm, something that you foster between cupped hands and whisper into ears.
This?
This is rapture. This is the absolute clarity that I would rather die alone than walk this world without him by my side again. It sits deep inside my chest, a second heart that beats only for him.
And I think it’s about time I tell him how much he’s worth to me.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Bellamy
No matter how many times I reread my grimoire during the night, I couldn’t find anything that’s remotely useful for my situation. There’s plenty on divination, dreams, protecting the home, herbology. Angels and spirits, a tiny bit on demonology, but not enough.
“Do you think I’ll ever be able to eat real food again?” Séverin asks just as I’m trying to leave the office.
My hand clenches around the cool metal of the door handle. I take a deep breath to calm myself, letting it go slowly before turning back toward him. I tell myself again that it’s not his fault his sire is a bitch, and I’m the only one that he can talk to who knows anything about the paranormal world.
“I’ve already told you, I don’t know much about daywalkers. I’ll help you look into it when I can, but that’s not right now.” Cue internal screaming.
He nods, contemplative, going back to his task. I take the opportunity to escape, waving a quick goodbye to Lara before walking quickly home. It does little to expel my aggravated energy.
I keep tugging on the bond between me and Delphine. She’s still there; I can feel her at the end of the tether, a rumble coming every now and then.
Whatever she did to the demon, it made her weak, and I’m not sure what to do about it other than load my altar up with offerings and hope that helps her gain some energy and find a way back to me.
I manage to shave seven minutes off my usual time for walking home, but I’m out of breath by the time I slide my key into the lock and stumble through my apartment door. I’m not surprised to see Sunday’s black boots nestled among my pastel-rainbow collection of chucks, but it makes me feel a little fuzzy inside all the same.
The scent of something cheesy and delicious invades my nose. The source of it comes a few seconds later. Sunday appears, holding two plates, with utensils tucked into the front of the Barbie-pink apron he’s wearing. It’s ridiculously small on him, and my mind wanders to filthy places, made worse by the blinding grin he gives me before putting the plates down on the coffee table.
He’s arranged pillows and throws on the floor to sit on. Two champagne flutes sit in the center, a bottle of something pink and fizzy tucked alongside them. I’m slightly stunned as I watch a bead of condensation roll down the neck of the fancy bottle, only blinking back to my senses at the sound of Sunday sucking something off his thumb.
“I made moussaka, I hope that’s okay,” he says, using a crooked finger to tip my chin up to look at him. My heart straight up stops in my chest. His eyes are clearer than they’ve been in days—brighter, more color in his cheeks. There’s still a tinge of exhaustion, but he almost looks like himself again.
“Are you feeling okay?” I ask quietly. The secret of knowing why he’s been allowed this recuperation and what I have to do to keep it that way is locked up tight in the hollow space between my ribs. He doesn’t need to know. It’s kinder that way.
He bends his head until his lips hover just over mine, letting them stretch into a smile. “Pretty good, Babybell. All things considered.”
He’s still smiling when he kisses me. It pulls a sad grin out of me too, and then we’re all teeth and borrowed laughter among tender touches of our lips. I reach up onto my tiptoes and snake my hands around the back of his neck, pulling him in for more. He reacts in kind, pulling my waist until I’m flush against him.
I’m hard in seconds, my cock aching and pressing against the unforgiving material of my jeans. I grind against his thigh, pushing my tongue into his mouth and tugging at the inky strands of his hair. He doesn’t know where my desperation is coming from, and I want it to stay that way.
I let out a pathetic whimper as he pulls away, which just makes him laugh, low and breathy.
“Dinner first. Payback for denying me in the hospital,” he gloats, booping me playfully on the nose.
I roll my eyes. “Rude. You were literally hooked up to an IV, Sunny.”
“I was literally dying to be inside you,” he fires back, pushing into my space. “To bury myself in you while you fucked yourself on me, and I would’ve had to hold my hand over your mouth because you don’t know how to be quiet when it feels good.”
Spirit.
Lead.
Me.
He’s definitely feeling better, then. I can already feel my boxers getting sticky with precum. I love how he can turn me into a puddle with just a look or some carefully chosen words. I love how after all the damage that has been done to my fragile self-esteem, Sunday still manages to make me feel wanted, desired, and…loved.
“These are for you, by the way.” Right on cue, he presents me with a beautiful bundle of black and purple flowers, nestled among baby’s breath and wild grasses. It’s painfully representative of us. Dark and pastel, soft and rough.
