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She looked back, and found Hunt staring at her again. “What?”
A slight tug on her wrist told her everything.
Stay.
Her chest squeezed to the point of pain. “Okay.” She took a breath. “Okay, sure.”
And for some reason, the thought of going all the way to her bedroom, of leaving him for even a moment, seemed too risky. Like he might vanish again if she left to change.
So she grabbed the white T-shirt she’d intended to give him, and twisted away, peeling off her own shirt and bra and chucking them into the bathroom. They landed with a slap on the tiles, drowning out the rustle of his soft shirt as she slid it over herself. It hung down to her knees, providing enough coverage that she shucked off her wet sweats and underwear and threw them into the bathroom, too.
Syrinx had leapt into the bed, curling at the foot. And Hunt had moved over, giving her ample room. “Okay,” she said again, more to herself.
The sheets were warm, and smelled of him—rain-kissed cedar. She tried not to breathe it in too obviously as she took up a sitting position against the headboard. And she tried not to look too shocked when he laid his head on her thigh, his arm coming across her to rest on the pillow.
A child laying his head on his mother’s lap. A friend looking for any sort of reassuring contact to remind him that he was a living being. A good person, no matter what they made him do.
Bryce tentatively brushed the hair from his brow again.
Hunt’s eyes closed, but he leaned slightly into the touch. A silent request.
So Bryce continued stroking his hair, over and over, until his breathing deepened and steadied, until his powerful body grew limp beside hers.
It smelled like paradise. Like home and eternity and like exactly where he was meant to be.
Hunt opened his eyes to feminine softness and warmth and gentle breathing.
In the dim light, he found himself half-sprawled across Bryce’s lap, the woman herself passed out against the headboard, head lolling to the side. Her hand still lingered in his hair, the other in the sheets by his arm.
The clock read three thirty. It wasn’t the time that surprised him, but the fact that he was clearheaded enough to notice.
She’d taken care of him. Washed and clothed and soothed him. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had done that.
Hunt carefully peeled his face from her lap, realizing that her legs were bare. That she wasn’t wearing anything beneath his T-shirt. And his face had been mere inches away.
His muscles protested only slightly as he rose upward. Bryce didn’t so much as stir.
She’d put him in his underwear, for fuck’s sake.
His cheeks warmed, but he eased from the bed, Syrinx opening an eye to see what the commotion was about. He waved the beastie off and padded to Bryce’s side of the mattress.
She stirred only slightly as he scooped her into his arms and carried her to her own room. He laid her on her bed, and she grumbled, protesting at the cool sheets, but he swiftly tossed the down comforter over her and left before she could awaken.
He was halfway across the living area when her phone, discarded on the kitchen counter, glared with light. Hunt looked at it, unable to help himself.
A chain of messages from Ruhn filled the screen, all from the past few hours.
Is Athalar all right? Later, Are you all right?
Then, an hour ago, I called the front desk of your building, and the doorman reassured me that you’re both up there, so I’m assuming you two are fine. But call me in the morning.
And then from thirty seconds ago, as if it were an afterthought, I’m glad you called me tonight. I know things are fucked up between us, and I know a lot of that is my fault, but if you ever need me, I’m here. Anytime at all, Bryce.
Hunt glanced toward her bedroom hallway. She’d called Ruhn—that’s who she’d been on the phone with when he got back. He rubbed at his chest.
He fell back asleep in his own bed, where the scent of her still lingered, like a phantom, warming touch.
55
