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There’s a glass of orange juice and a bottle of ibuprofen on the counter. I pop a couple and swallow them down with some juice.
“Morning,” Gabriel says from the stove where he’s flipping the bacon in a sizzling pan.
I lift my hand in a pathetic wave, still not fully awake. I shuffle over to the coffee maker and press a bunch of buttons until, eventually, I end up with an Americano. I sit at the kitchen table, nursing my steaming mug, and stare out at the pool. The water is even, unmoving. There isn’t much of a breeze today, but it still looks chilly out.
“How did you sleep?”
“Dead to the world,” I reply, sipping the strong coffee and sighing happily as the steam warms my face, making my nose tingle. “Where are the others?”
“Kade and Lex are still asleep, and Atlas is out for a run.”
I glance outside again. I could handle a workout. Sweat out the rest of the lethargy clinging to my muscles. “Has he been gone long?”
“About an hour.” He flips the bacon onto a plate and sets it on the table. “Eat. You’ll feel better.”
I lift my mug to my lips. “I’m all set.”
He stands in front of me. “Coffee is not food, angel,” he says dryly.
I pout. “Let me live my life.”
He pushes the bacon closer. “Don’t make me tell you again.” The authority in his voice has me reaching for a piece of bacon without hesitation.
I take a bite and chew slowly. It tastes freaking amazing, because of course it does. “Thanks, Gabriel.” I shoot him a small smile. “You’re always looking out for me.” I glance at my lap. “I’m assuming you changed my clothes last night?”
He nods when I look back up at him. “You can keep my shirt. I like the way it looks on you.”
My smile morphs into a grin. “Good. I was going to keep it anyway. It’s super comfy.”
The corner of his mouth curls, and he snags a piece of bacon off the plate, biting half of it off. “You like your eggs poached, right?”
I nod, figuring there’s no point in arguing about eating breakfast. “You don’t need to cook for me, though. I can make, well, not much, but still.”
He chews the other half of his piece of bacon and swallows. “I enjoy taking care of you.”
I blink at him in surprise, taking another sip of my Americano. “I can’t imagine when the four of you made that deal with my ancestors that you did so expecting to put me to bed and cook me breakfast.”
He pauses, scratching the shadow of stubble at his jaw. He’s usually clean-shaven, but I like this slightly disheveled look on him. “Perhaps not,” he says softly. “Regardless, I’m happy to do it.”
I decide there’s not much else to say. I tried to subtly get some information, and it didn’t necessarily backfire like it did the other night, but I’m still no further ahead when it comes to information.
After breakfast, I sneak upstairs and change into bright purple leggings and a matching cropped workout top. I grab a bottle of water on my way to the gym and flick the lights and ceiling fans on when I get inside. I warm up for a few minutes on the treadmill before approaching the heavy punching bag hanging from a thick beam across the ceiling. I’ve never been much into boxing, but the building pressure in my chest tells me it might do me some good to punch something over and over to exert some frustrated energy.
The first time my fist connects with the bag, a grin splits across my lips.This is fun. I stick my wireless headphones in and turn the music way up, losing myself in the beat as my body moves instinctively, punching and kicking the bag until my chest is heaving with shallow breaths and my heart is pounding so hard it feels moments away from breaking free from my ribcage.
I turn to grab my water bottle off the floor and yelp when I find Atlas leaning against the wall, watching me. I rip my headphones out as I struggle to catch my breath. “What… are you… doing?”
“Your form is pathetic,” he says, pushing away from the wall and walking closer.
I drop my headphones next to my water bottle and cross my arms. “Gee, thanks for the unsolicited critique.”
He stops a few feet away, his jaw tight. When he opens his mouth to speak, his fangs are extended. “You’re bleeding.”
The color drains from my face, and I step back, only to hit the punching bag. I glance down at my hands and see that my knuckles are an angry red, raw and throbbing with pain. My left knuckle is split open in one place, which is where the blood is coming from. I didn’t feel it until now. I cover the injury with my other hand and press my lips together.
Atlas swallows visibly, not moving an inch as he keeps his eyes on me. His fangs retract after a tense moment, and he seems to relax a little. “I’m sorry. I haven’t had an opportunity to feed in a couple of days.”
I nod, because what else am I supposed to do?
