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“Waking up,” I say. “I was sleeping, but…” I push myself into a sitting position, rubbing my eyes, stretching my shoulders as I look up at him. He’s still in the same suit, but he got rid of the bloody jacket. I raise a brow. “Are you just getting home?”
“Why did you sleep on the couch?” he asks.
I narrow my eyes and sniff. “Ghost,” I say. “I asked you a question first.”
His eyebrows shoot up into his hairline, his mouth open as he struggles to speak. It takes a solid ten seconds before he shakes himself and darts off into the kitchen.
“Bunny,” I mumble, nodding to myself. That fits him very well.
“Why do you keep talking about rabbits?” He throws the fridge open and steps halfway into it, his brow furrowing a moment later. “What did you eat last night?”
I straighten his T-shirt over my thighs, burrowing my toes in the plushy white rug.
“Lucy.”
“Hm?”
“Answer me,” he almost growls. “Right now.”
A shiver runs down my back, but it doesn’t feel like fear. My heart skips rather than drops, and heat blooms on my chest instead of the back of my neck. I think I like it when he talks to me that way.
“I asked you a question first,” I say again.
He closes the fridge and puts a hand on his hip, the other braced on the handle like he’s physically holding himself back from lunging at me. He holds my eyes, challenging, the red on his face going deeper and deeper when all I do is stare back.
He said he wouldn’t hurt me, and I believe him. I don’t mind following his lead, but it’s a two-way street.
So, I wait him out.
“Yes,” he grits through his teeth, “this is the first time I’ve been up here.”
I lean over, peeking at the clock on the stove behind his back. “It’s six in the morning.”
“Yes.”
“How—have you even slept yet?”
“Mm-mm.” He shakes his head and comes back to me, standing so close his legs nearly hit my knees. I crane my head back to look at him, and he looms over me until I have to lean back into the couch. “Your turn to answer the questions.”
I swallow, folding my hands in my lap so I don’t touch him and send him running again. “You asked a few…”
“Three,” he says. “I expect you to listen when I speak.”
I frown. “I was.”
He softens for the briefest flash, then forces that stoic expression back in place. “Good,” he says. “Then you’ll do well with a lesson in memory.”
It is really, really hot in here right now, and my legs are sticking to the couch, and there is no air, and he truly seems to believe I can think straight. This is so overwhelming.
I peel my legs off the couch, my knee brushing his thigh as I squirm downwards. His fist clenches before he puts it behind his back, but that’s the only inclination he noticed.
“I slept on the couch,” I say, hoping beyond hope that was his first question, “in case you wanted the bed to yourself w-when you got home.”
His brow knits, and he forces a breath through his nose. “I won’t be sleeping here during your stay.”
The heat building inside me freezes in shock, sending a much less pleasant shudder through me. “But…”
“There are other rooms at Vie de Mort,” he continues. “The loft is yours for the time being. I’m only here now to bring your new clothes.”
