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“You can hate me, but don’t put us in an even worse situation than you already have,” I respond finally, my voice hushed yet firm. “He’s opening his home to us, so it’s only fair we respect him.”
There’s only a minuscule amount of space between us, and it’s filled with crackling tension. He clenches his jaw but turns away, and it feels like he’s ripped himself out of a force field, blanketing us.
I inhale deeply, finally able to breathe, like my body had powered down and the on switch has been flipped again.
He prowls the room like a caged animal, his shoulders nearly hiked up to his ears.
Limbs shaking, I take the opportunity to switch out of my sandy clothes while he’s distracted.
Picking up the questionably clean clothes Sylvester gave me, I wrinkle my nose at the stale, musty smell emanating from the t-shirt and sweats, but it’s better than sleeping in salt-dried clothes covered in sand.
I switch out my attire with his, and the entire time, I attempt to keep myself covered as much as possible as if Enzo hasn't seen me naked and spread open in ways that Jesus will surely crucify me for later.Though he’s now staring out the window, arms crossed, and brooding.
When I’m finished, I make sure to tuck my belongings in a small pile, already planning on washing them tomorrow. Surprisingly, his credit card survived the storm and is still lodged in the back pocket of my cutoff shorts. I plan to hide it under the mattress later when he’s not looking, but for now, I keep it rolled up between my clothing.
My selfish side and my moralistic side are clashing, both relieved and disappointed. Worse yet, I'm partly disappointed because the ocean didn't take matters out of my hands and rid me of it, granting me an easy break from it.
“I'm taking the bed,” I announce after I’m done, forcing a grin and pouncing on the lumpy mattress.
“Absolutely not,” he snaps, his head whipping toward me.
“I amnotsleeping on the floor,” I argue.
He thins his eyes. “You think I will?”
I cross my arms. “You're seriously not going to be a gentleman?”
“That would imply there's a lady in the room, and all I see is a fucking leech.”
My mouth falls, and it feels like he just drop-kicked me in the gut. That hurt, so I get angry.
“Fuck you,” I spit.
I fuckinghatehim.
“Already did, and it was the worst mistake of my life,” he retorts.
He gives me his back, undressing completely, and showing me his bare ass like he didn't just stick a hot poker in my chest. It's a great ass, but even that can't distract me from the pain radiating beneath my rib cage.
The clothes are just as ill-fitting on him, and it’s safe to say we’ll both be reverting to our own as soon as they’re clean.
I'm surprised when he gets in the bed beside me. I didn’t exactly expect him to be virtuous, but I also didn’t expect him to willingly sleep next to me, either. But I’m stubborn and refuse to sleep on a dusty wooden floor that will give me arthritis within a single night.
Swallowing, I make another weak attempt, “I kick in my sleep. My foot might accidentally lodge itself up your ass.”
He arches a brow. “And if that happens, I will do so much worse,bella ladra.”
Tension simmers in the air between us, and if it weren't for the lack of smoke, I'd think this place was on fire. It's hot, and I can't fucking breathe with him next to me.
“What does that even mean?” When he doesn't immediately answer, I clarify, “Bella ladra. What does that mean?”
Bellais familiar, and I’m almost positive it means beautiful. And that alone is like sticking a blender in my already twisted headspace. But I don’t know whatladrameans, or if it means something different with those two words together.
“It doesn't matter. I'm tired. It's been a long day, so either move to the floor or go to fucking sleep.”
Furrowing my brow, I plaster myself against the wall and tuck my legs under the threadbare navy-blue blanket.
I really don't want to sleep next to him. Still, my stubbornness persists. And apparently, so does his.
