Chapter 4 Theodore #4
It suddenly hit me that he’d lost his shirt. All he had on was that absurd mesh top that left more skin exposed than it covered. The sight of him standing there, hugging himself in the harsh streetlight, looking suddenly cold and sad, stirred something uncomfortable inside me.
Without thinking, I shrugged off my own shirt before holding it out to him.
Rory simply stared at me, then at the shirt, as if he couldn’t quite process what was happening. His eyes, still drunk-glazed, widened slightly. It almost looked like he might cry.
“Take it,” I snapped, heat rising to my face. Weren’t shifters supposed to run hot? “Before I change my mind.”
He reached out hesitantly, fingers brushing against mine as he took the shirt. Instead of putting his arms through the sleeves, he wrapped it around himself like a blanket, clutching the fabric at his throat.
My dress shirt swallowed him whole, the crisp blue material draping over his slender frame. Something about the strange sight—Rory Thorne wrapped in my clothing—made my throat go dry. The fabric hung off one shoulder, revealing a pale collarbone and the curve of his neck.
Swallowing hard, I looked away. What the hell? My migraines had always had quirky side effects, but this really took the biscuit.
I stormed off toward the car, silently praying Rory could follow without support. Behind me, I heard his uneven footsteps, occasionally punctuated by a muffled curse as he stumbled. I forced myself not to look back.
We reached his sorry excuse for a car. Rory fumbled in his pockets, producing his set of keys with a triumphant, “Aha!”
I snatched them before he could even attempt to unlock the car himself. He laughed, shuffling to the passenger side. We slid in, and he immediately clicked his seatbelt with surprising dexterity.
“Hold that broken door of yours,” I instructed as I turned the key in the ignition.
I pulled away from the kerb. With one hand on the wheel, I wiggled a well-deserved cigarette and my lighter out of my pocket.
“Ugh, you smoke? That’s disgusting,” Rory wrinkled his nose dramatically as I lit up.
“If you don’t like it, you’re welcome to walk home,” I replied, taking a deep drag. The nicotine hit my system, blunting the edge of my headache. I cracked the window, letting the smoke trail out into the night.
“Actually, this is helpful,” Rory mumbled, slumping in his seat. “Makes it easier.”
“What?”
…every time I find him hot, I can just remember this fucking grim smell…
I stared at Rory, my mind reeling. Had I just heard his thoughts correctly? He actually thought I was… hot?
The concept was so absurd I almost laughed out loud. Even before the whole “arresting him on a full moon” thing, Rory Thorne had made it abundantly clear from the moment we met that he despised me. Every interaction was laced with scorn, every look dripping with contempt. And yet…
Well, someone could hate another person and still find them attractive. Those weren’t mutually exclusive feelings.
Rory started coughing dramatically, waving his hand in front of his face to disperse the smoke.
“Stop being childish,” I muttered, taking another drag. “If you’re old enough to get blackout drunk at a supernatural nightclub, you’re old enough to handle a bit of cigarette smoke.”
“It’s not—” He coughed again, this time sounding less theatrical and more genuinely distressed. “It’s not childish. It’s a wolf thing. Wolf senses. Can’t—” Cough. “Can’t stand it.”
I glanced over at him. His face had taken on a greenish tinge, and his forehead gleamed with sweat despite the cool night air flowing through the cracked window.
“Stop the car!” he suddenly shouted, doubling over in the passenger seat. “Stop the fucking car!”
I swerved to the kerb, narrowly avoiding a parked motorcycle. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I muttered, throwing my half-smoked cigarette out the window. The second one half wasted tonight.
I’d barely pulled over when Rory fumbled with his door, pushing it open and practically falling onto the pavement. The retching sounds that followed were unmistakable—deep, guttural heaves that ended in splatter against the concrete.
I closed my eyes, leaning my head back against the headrest. The night just kept getting better and better.
…oh god, he’s watching me puke my guts out, this is so fucking mortifying…
I grabbed a vaguely clean napkin from the glove compartment and stepped out of the car, walking around to where Rory was still hunched over, retching miserably on the pavement.
His slender frame shook with each heave, and something uncomfortably close to guilt twisted in my gut.
It probably hadn’t been the most polite thing, to light a cigarette in his car without asking.
“Here,” I said, holding out the tissue when he finally straightened slightly.
He took it without looking at me, wiping his mouth. “Thanks,” he mumbled, voice raspy.
I opened the back door to be greeted by a chaotic junkyard—clothes strewn everywhere, random paperwork, and what appeared to be a half-eaten sandwich growing sentient life. I eventually located a water bottle.
Rory was leaning against the car when I stood up, looking pale and miserable.
“Small sips,” I instructed, briefly touching his back as he took the bottle.
He nodded weakly, following my advice with uncharacteristic obedience. While he drank, I glanced at the map on my phone.
“Look, your flat is almost an hour away, and mine is fifteen minutes,” I said, the throbbing behind my eyes intensifying. The thought of driving across London with a drunk, possibly still-nauseated werewolf while fighting a migraine was unbearable.
Rory moaned in response, leaning his head against the cool metal of the car.
I hesitated, considering my options. Kit would probably murder me if I brought Rory home in this state. But I could text him something vague—just enough to let him know Rory was safe without inviting his wrath.
“Chips!” Rory suddenly exclaimed, his head snapping up.
“What?”
“I need chips! It’s the only thing that will save me. Please?” His eyes were wide, pleading, as if he was a dying man and I had his cure.
Despite my headache begging me not to, I found myself saying, “There’s a good shop at the top of my road, which will still be open.” Part of me couldn’t believe my ears, but it was slightly my fault he’d thrown up.
“Yes. Perfect. Please. Thank you. Sorry for throwing up in your car.”
“This is your car!” I stared at him incredulously.
Rory blinked several times, looking around as if seeing the vehicle for the first time. “So it is.”
The drive to my road had been mercifully short, though Rory’s drunken commentary on my “driving like a pensioner” and his demands for curry sauce with his chips—despite having no money to pay for it—still echoed in my ears.
I’d caved and bought it for him, then watched in equal parts horror and fascination as he’d tilted his head back and drank the remaining sauce like it was a premium whisky.
…best chips ever…never tasted anything so good…thank god for Maxwell…
His thoughts had been a steady stream of gratitude mixed with genuine euphoria over what was, frankly, mediocre food from the nearest chippy.
Now, as I pulled up outside my building, Rory was slumped against the passenger window, greasy fingers still clutching the empty chip wrapper, looking like he’d just experienced a religious awakening courtesy of Paul’s Plaice.
“Right,” I said, parking in the guest spot in my building’s small car park. The night had been a marathon of madness, and I was more than ready for it to end. “We’re here.”
To my surprise, Rory walked in a fairly straight line to the front door. Seemed like the chips had indeed saved him from the worst of his drunken state. My shirt still hung off his shoulders, the sleeves dangling past his fingertips.
…I could just pretend to stumble…maybe he’d even princess carry me…
The thought was so clear, so vivid, it might as well have been shouted directly into my ear. I cleared my throat loudly.
Rory’s head whipped around, eyes wide with horror.
…fuck, is he listening?…god, it’s so infuriating he can just listen to my every thought…
He was right. It was incredibly infuriating—for me. I couldn’t simply turn it off. And the worst part? If I admitted I’d heard his thoughts, I’d only confirm his suspicions and increase his paranoia.
So I did what I always did—pretended I hadn’t heard a thing and carried on.
The elevator ride to my third-floor flat passed in uncomfortable silence.
Rory kept shooting me furtive glances, then quickly looking away when I caught his eye.
The close confines of the elevator made his thoughts louder, more intrusive—fragments about the stubble across my jawline, my hands, the way my T-shirt stretched across my chest, my smell.
I kept my expression neutral, pretending I couldn’t hear a thing.
Though, as I unlocked my door, a tiny part of me couldn’t help but enjoy being wanted.
I kept almost everyone at a distance; my last casual relationship was almost a year ago.
Between the demands of the job and the complications of being a telepath, dating had always been a minefield.
It was nice to feel attractive for a moment, even if it was just drunken appreciation from someone who normally couldn’t stand me.
Plus, nothing would ever come of it. Rory’s attraction was obviously just harmless fun, fleeting interest that would evaporate with sobriety. Besides, I was straight. Had only ever dated women. The occasional stray thought about a man was just… normal curiosity. Nothing worth examining too closely.
“You can take the sofa,” I said, flicking on the lights to reveal my modest living room. Nobody had ever slept on it, but it looked comfy enough. “If you throw up on it, I will kill you.”
Rory stood in the doorway, suddenly looking very small as he clutched my shirt.
“Thanks,” he mumbled. “For everything. The chips. Not leaving me at Undertone.”
Not leaving him? What?!
I nodded stiffly, uncomfortable with his gratitude. It was easier when we were sniping at each other.
“Bathroom’s down the hall,” I said, to get him out of my sight.
Then I raided my ottoman for spare blankets, pulling out the softest ones I owned.
Why was I going to such lengths for Rory Thorne of all people?
The man who’d been a thorn in my side since the moment we met?
The man who had me saved as “Detective Dickface” in his phone?
Blankets all laid out, I grabbed the cushion from the armchair because it was plusher—I wasn’t being nice, simply professional. I couldn’t have him complaining to Seb that I’d left him to suffer.
I headed down the hall to my bedroom. Though as I approached, I found the bathroom door wide open, light spilling into the hallway. And there stood Rory, merrily brushing his teeth.
With my toothbrush.
“Hey!” I barked, stopping dead in my tracks. “That’s mine!”
Rory shrugged, foam gathering at the corners of his mouth. “There was only one,” he mumbled around the toothbrush.
“I…” Words failed me. The audacity of this man was truly breathtaking.
He turned away from me to spit into the basin, casual as could be, like this was his bathroom and I was the intruder.
Dazed, I retreated to the kitchen. After swallowing down two painkillers, I rested my forehead against the cool metal of the refrigerator, wondering if I was in some sort of fever dream. Rory Thorne was in my house, brushing his teeth with my toothbrush. Had I stumbled into an alternate dimension?
After several cool minutes against the fridge, I regained enough composure to text Kit to let him know Rory wouldn’t be home, then poured him a glass of water. He still hadn’t returned to the living room, so I went to find him before he helped himself to anything else of mine.
The bathroom was empty.
Strange.
My bedroom door was ajar, the light off. I pushed it open, half expecting to find him rifling through my drawers.
Instead, I found Rory asleep on my queen-sized bed, sprawled atop the duvet with my shirt clutched around him like a security blanket.
God, he looked so different like this. So peaceful. Every sharp edge softened.
But no. No way was Rory stealing my fucking bed, after all he’d put me through tonight.
“Rory,” I hissed, stepping closer. “Get up.”
Rory responded with a soft snore, burrowing deeper into my shirt.
I stood there, torn between dragging him off the bed and just giving up. My back twinged at the thought of spending the night on my too-small sofa, the day’s tension settling between my shoulder blades like concrete.
Maybe I could just stretch out on the other side of the bed for a few minutes, work out the kinks in my spine before resigning myself to my fate…
I clawed out my contacts before I lay down, keeping a careful distance between us. Just five minutes, then I’d relocate to the sofa. Rory stirred but didn’t wake, his breathing changing rhythm before settling back into a steady pattern.
I couldn’t help but glance at his face again. No smirk, no raised eyebrow, no challenging stare. Just a… softness.
…warm…not alone…safe…
His thoughts drifted to me, unguarded and simple. When was the last time anyone had felt safe with me? Usually, I was the harbinger of bad news, the bearer of warrants, the voice telling you your loved one wasn’t coming home.
Rory shifted again, mumbling something unintelligible. I found myself attuning to his breathing, the gentle rise and fall of his chest beneath my shirt.
Five minutes stretched to ten. My headache reduced to a dull ache, and my eyelids grew heavy, tension unspooling from my muscles. Rory’s rhythmic breathing became a metronome, lulling me toward sleep. I should move. I really should move.
But I didn’t.
Instead, I let my eyes close, just for a moment. Just until I gathered the energy to get up.
The last thing I registered before drifting off was Rory’s breathing syncing with mine, our chests rising and falling in perfect unison, as if we’d somehow found the same wavelength in sleep that constantly eluded us in waking life.