Chapter 9 From Bad to Worse
FROM BAD TO WORSE
RAYA
I can’t decide how I feel about this weirdly chill version of Asher.
From the airport, it was a quick drive along the harbor to the Gaslamp District downtown, and Asher was relaxed and polite to both myself and the driver the whole time.
I’m trying to figure out how likely it is he has a secret twin who swapped places with him for this trip as we pull up to the hotel.
I follow Asher into the sleek hotel lobby, suitcases rattling along behind us as we step up to the counter. He gives both of our names and I lean against the tall counter next to him as we wait.
When the concierge asks for the names again, typing with a little more gusto this time, I straighten up, noticing a slight furrow between his brows. I glance at Asher, but he ignores me.
Finally, the concierge looks up from the screen, eyes bouncing between us.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Sullivan, but it seems we only have the one room booked under your name. We don’t have any reservation for a Ms. Merritt.”
Then he looks at Asher expectantly, like he will have the solution to this problem. I’m starting to understand how Reverie feels half the time, like she’s too small to be noticed.
“That’s okay,” I say. “I’ll just take whatever you have available.”
The concierge glances at me, and then back to Asher, then down to the computer before replying. “Unfortunately, we don’t have any rooms open at the moment.”
“I’m sorry, what?” I say, at the same time Asher says, “How is that possible?”
“Well,” the concierge says, his voice calm and careful, “it’s TwitchCon, so we are completely booked. We even have a waitlist in case of any last minute cancellations. I’m happy to add you to it, if you’d like?” The concierge is clearly trying to offer a polite smile, but I am beyond it.
“What are we going to do?” I turn to Asher now too, hating the pleading tremble in my voice.
“Some of our meetings are booked here at the hotel, and the company office is across the street.
There must be another option close by," I trail off, muttering to myself as I pull out my phone and step away.
A frantic search reveals that there are no current openings at any of the hotels within a five mile radius, and I don’t have the funds to rent a car for anything further.
Feeling tears gather in my eyes at what is turning out to be a miserable day, I blink furiously while praying to all the stars above that I don’t shift right now. That would be the cherry on top.
A hand enters my vision, covering mine and easing my phone down. I already know who it is, and his gentle touch spurs on the tears, causing a few to streak down my cheeks. I spin away from him, swiping at my face furiously.
“It’s fine, you’ll stay with me. We’ll make this work," he says.
His tone doesn’t give any indication how he feels about that arrangement, but I have no other answers or ideas, so I simply nod. Keeping my eyes glued to the floor, I grab my duffel and suitcase, then follow him into the elevator where he pushes the button for the eighth floor.
The elevator ride takes years, and when it finally spits us out, I can feel his eyes burning over every inch of me.
I refuse to acknowledge it, instead setting my shoulders back and tipping my chin up with a steadying breath.
Now that we aren’t in such a public place, in front of others who could see if I had another embarrassing shift, I’m feeling more calm and in control again.
The room isn’t anything special, with a standard king bed, small kitchenette, and decent sized bathroom next to a closet.
Wait.
My eyes fly back to the bed. The one, single, bed—because of course the company wouldn’t have reserved a room with double queens. Not when only one person is supposed to be staying here.
Gulping at the thickness in my throat when I contemplate sharing a bed with him, I turn away and place my suitcase next to the set of drawers to begin unpacking for the week.
Neither of us speak, both metaphorically tiptoe-ing around the king-sized elephant in the room as we settle in. I retreat to the bathroom to shower off the plane ride before bed, dreading my chances of keeping myself safe from him when we’re forced into such close quarters.
I slip into my silky pajama set, a pale pink button down short sleeve shirt with tiny sunflowers printed all over it and matching shorts. I bundle up my dirty clothes and steel myself as I open the door.
“It’s all yours," I say, gesturing to the bathroom with steam billowing out behind me.
“Wow, leave any hot water for the rest of us?” Asher asks, and once again, I can’t tell if he’s mocking me in a friendly, teasing way, or if he’s being mean. My lips scrunch to one side as I inch past him to the far side of the bed and sit down on the edge.
“I called down for more pillows and an extra set of blankets. They should be up any minute so if someone knocks, that’s probably what it is," he says.
“Oh, okay great. Thanks," I reply, trailing off as Asher closes the bathroom door before I finish speaking.
When he comes out bare chested in a pair of low-slung shorts twenty minutes later, my eyes nearly bug out of my head.
“What. You…” I splutter, nothing coherent coming out of my mouth because he has abs for days. So many ridges of muscle are staring me in the face that my mouth starts to water; I want to run my tongue along those ridges and count them.
When I manage to pull my eyes from his torso, the most infuriating smirk takes over his face, and naturally that’s the moment my inner animal decides to show up. With a little tingle along my cheeks and forearms, I sprout smooth patches of short grey fur.
“Ughhhhh,” I throw my head back and let out a groaning yell fit for the undead, as my frustration with this shifting nears its breaking point.
Asher’s smirk disappears and a look that might be concern replaces it.
“Are you okay?” he asks, reaching out like he might touch me, but I pull away.
“What does it look like?” I snap, holding my arms out wide and turning away to hide my frustration and sadness.
“I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?”
I’m surprised to hear that he sounds like he means it, but I’m not sure what he expects me to say. If I can’t do anything, what could he possibly do?
“It’ll go away on its own,” I mutter, “eventually.”
“It…” he trails off.
“What?” I look up at his tentative voice, trying to keep my hackles in check.
“Nothing.”
Are his cheeks turning pink? Can vampires blush?
I’m fully invested now, and I perk up again.
“No, tell me. What were you going to say?” I ask.
“I was going to say that it looks…” When he stops again, I purse my lips and prepare for the worst. He must see or sense me closing up, because his eyes widen and he rushes to finish. “No, it’s not bad. I was just thinking that it looks soft.”
My head tilts at this, and my hand rises to my cheek. I’ve never even considered how my various types of fur might feel to others. Stroking my fingers down my cheek, I shrug, and he leans forward.
“Well?” he asks, and somehow his voice is even more hushed than it was before, almost reverent. “Is it?”
I reach out to him, watching as his gaze flicks between my outstretched hand and my eyes. One side of my mouth quirks up at his hesitancy.
“I won’t bite you,” I say, and I’m pretty sure his lips twitch into what might almost be a smile at the implication that of the two of us, I’m not the one with lethal fangs.
Asher extends his hand and places it in mine, letting me take the lead and guide him. I run his fingers over the fur on my opposite arm, and he sucks in a breath. I raise my eyebrows in question, and he nods.
“Yeah,” he says, clearing his throat, “soft.”
With that, the short grey fur pulls back into my skin, and I’m left with his fingers circling my elbow. He lets them trail down my forearm to my wrist, leaving sparks and goosebumps in their wake as he pulls away, his eyes fixed on mine.
My breath stalls, a different tingle flickering over me. I break eye contact and look away.
What in the world?
I’ve never let anyone touch me like that before, not when I’m shifted. And even though physical touch is a necessity for shifters, it’s normally comforting. Not… Whatever that was, making me all hot and bothered in the most irritating way.
Grabbing a couple pillows and the extra blanket, I stalk away from the bed and start to create a little nest on the floor.
“Absolutely not.” His voice is harsh and full of command, all traces of the softer man from minutes ago are gone.
There’s the asshole attitude I know and loath.
“Excuse me?” My defenses are back in place, and when I look up at the man glowering over me, my spine stiffens at the threat I sense in his stance.
“You take the bed. I’ll sleep on the floor.”
I scoff. “You can drop the nice act, Mr. Walton," I say. “It’s just us now, you don’t have to pretend anymore.”
My brows draw together as what might be hurt flashes across his face, but what does he expect from me? I can sleep on the floor same as he can.
“That’s not my name.”
It takes me a second to catch up, not expecting him to address that part of my statement.
“What do you mean that’s not your name?” I say, my tone icy.
“I had it legally changed years ago. My name is Asher Sullivan.” His tone is equally frosty, and his words put a crack in my defenses.
“You… what?”
Asher grabs the pillows and blankets from me, then snags a couple more from the closet and lays them out on the floor at the foot of the bed, not answering me as he lays down with a quiet huff.
I’m left standing in the middle of the room, thoughts racing circles around the inside of my head.
I can’t help wondering who he is, why he changed his name, what could cause someone to do that and whether it has anything to do with why he hasn’t been photographed with his family in years.
“Asher? What did you mean you changed your name?”
He continues to ignore me and rolls over so all I can see is the broad expanse of his back.
Giving up on it for now, I quietly walk back to the bed and climb in, lying stiffly on my back, arms straight at my sides.
I do my best to lie still, not wanting to bother Asher more than I clearly already have, but I can’t sleep.
I feel guilty, like I made a grave error, and I don’t know how to fix it.
I toss and turn for what feels like hours before I whisper into the dark, silent room. “I’m sorry. Can we start over?”
No answer.
I roll over again, sensing that he’s not sleeping either, although he lies still as stone at the foot of the bed.
“I may be the world’s most broken shifter, but my ears work just fine. I know you’re not sleeping," I say, my voice soft and carrying more hurt than I intend it to.
He rolls over with a sigh, then mutters, “I’m trying to.”
I purse my lips as more fur sprouts out along my upper arms and back. It feels more coarse this time. Dense and bristly, it’s not at all comfortable to lay on, so I roll to my stomach as he speaks again, so quietly I almost miss it.
“And you’re not broken.”
I huff. What is his deal? This man is so confusing. Before I can reply, he interrupts my thoughts.
“Go to sleep, Raya.”
Why does my name on his lips make my heart flutter?