Chapter 30 Mornings After
MORNINGS AFTER
ALICE
It’s warm, is my first thought as I wake.
It’s too warm, is my second.
Why are there eyes on me? is the third.
My lids snap open.
Ori leans against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his muscled chest; he’s clad in those same Arcadian fighting leathers he wore to our first training.
A pauldron curves over one of his pronounced shoulders and an embellished chest plate lays flush against his wide center, both strapped over a billowing white shirt, brown pants, and matching leather boots.
It’s all very fantastical, as if he’s about to go to the Renaissance Faire.
Time stretches out languidly between us, much like my muscles ache to do, but I stay still, and silent, waiting for him to say something.
His gaze trails down my body, taking in the way my legs are tangled with Jessa’s and my arm is curled around Harley’s waist. It snags a few times, getting caught on my rucked-up nightshirt, which exposes a sliver of my belly, and my fingers, which curve over the soft skin of Harley’s Adonis belt.
And though his expression never shifts during his appraisal of us three, the energy emanating off him does.
It deepens from a stormy gray to midnight black.
Thirty more seconds pass—I count them in my head to be sure, because it feels like an eternity before he pushes off the molding.
The floorboards creak.
Ori freezes, eyes narrowing over Harley’s sleeping form. His jaw grinds, rippling the beard that accentuates his chiseled features.
“Get up,” he finally says. It’s a gruff whisper. Raw, like he hasn’t used his voice in days. “We’re training today.”
He waits for me to move, but I just blink up at him in my post-sleep haze. He can’t be serious right now, can he?
“Alice,” Ori growls impatiently, and I hate how my body clenches at the sound. Every muscle tightens, and a shiver passes through me.
I suddenly need to get out of this bed. I quickly—but cautiously—slip out of Harley and Jessa’s hold, and crawl off the end. Tiptoeing around, I begin to collect my discarded clothes.
“Leave them. I have something for you to change into down in the kitchen,” he says, quiet enough not to wake Harley or Jessa.
I pause, one hand curled around my shorts. Ori waits for me to challenge him, but I sigh, deciding to pick my battles with him sparingly.
“Fine. But let me text them we’re leaving. I don’t want them to freak when they wake up and see that I’m gone.”
“I left a note on the fridge,” Ori says.
“I want them to have a note from me,” I explain, expecting him to understand. But his stoic expression says otherwise. I stifle my groan, tossing my shorts back on the ground and padding past him with my phone. “I can’t just ignore them the morning after. I’m not some college fuckboy.”
“You’re fucking them now?” Ori asks, way too loud, as he follows me down the hall.
“Shhh!” I hush over my shoulder. “What the fuck is wrong with you? They’re sleeping.”
Ori’s nostrils flare in frustration, and as we descend the stairs, he mutters things I can’t make out, but I’m pretty sure I catch an annoyed ‘smells like sex more than usual’. Otherwise, he keeps his mouth shut until we’re in the kitchen.
I slide onto a stool at the island and finish prepping my text in our group chat, while Ori grabs a brown paper bag from the counter. He turns it over on the granite, two wrapped bagels falling out.
“Are you fucking them?” Ori asks, tentatively, while he reads the handwritten label on each bagel. He slides one to me, and I stop it from flying off the ledge.
“What if I am?” I ask. “Do you have a problem with that?”
“No,” he says, too quickly.
I lift the bagel and inspect the waxed paper. “What is this?” I ask. It’s got the Strathmore sticker holding it closed, and it’s still warm, which means it’s fresh.
“It’s a bagel,” Ori drawls sarcastically.
I roll my eyes. “I know it’s a bagel.”
“Then why did you ask?”
“I’m only confused as to why you are giving it to me.” I open it and find a perfectly crusted, yellow egg-everything, smeared with veggie cream cheese. It’s not just a bagel. It’s my favorite.
Ori unwraps his own and rips into it. A single bite from his pearly teeth takes out a quarter of it. “Just accept the peace offering, Alice.”
My lips purse. I don’t want to admit it, but this is as good a peace offering as any, if not better. And definitely unexpected.
I take a bite and sigh, closing my eyes.
I missed the hell out of these when I was in California.
You can’t get them fresh anywhere else, and there’s nothing better than a warm one, right out of the oven, crisp on the outside, doughy on the inside, with an inch of cool cream cheese sandwiched in the middle.
As I chew, I can’t help but circle back to Ori’s reaction to my sex life. “You know, it sure sounded like you have a problem with me fucking them.”
Ori’s sigh is great, and I hear the fridge open and close. “They’re their own people. They can do whatever they want.”
I crack an eye and see his back is still turned, pouring milk into the steamer cup attached to their coffee maker.
Next to him, a sticky note flutters under a blast of air conditioning, slapped at eye-height on the fridge.
I can’t make out the text written on it, but I can see the larger letters of his name scrawled out at the bottom.
The steamer squeals. Milk bubbles.
I don’t fully understand my visceral reactions to this man, or why we can’t seem to do anything but argue. But it’s obvious he cares deeply for Jessa and Harley, and in that, we are the same. If he’s going to extend an olive branch, then I should accept it.
“Peace offering accepted,” I say, licking the cream cheese squeezing out the side of my bagel. “Egg everythings are my favorite. Did Jessa tell you?”
“It’s what you ordered at the store the other day.” Ori turns around, perching his ass against the counter. His arms cross—or, half cross. One hand still holds his bagel, while the other grips his bicep. And then he stares.
Attentive. Watchful. Slightly amused and puzzled as to why. It’s as if he’s allowing himself to see me for the first time, even though he’s seen me plenty—took one hell of an eyeful not five minutes ago.
A standoff ensues, as we each nosh until we’re licking our fingers of crumbs and cream cheese.
The coffee steamer beeps, marking an end to the stalemate; Ori pours himself his latte while I clean up my mess. I crumple my discarded waxed paper into a ball, swipe any loose seeds into my open palm, and hop off the stool to toss them in the trash.
“This what you brought for me?” I ask, pointing at the garment bag I noticed hanging on the open bathroom door. I stride over to it, grabbing the zipper and pulling it down. “Is it some kind of sacrificial outfit for you to kill me in to appease your dragon?”
“Arcadian fighting leathers,” Ori chides as I part the garment bag, catching a whiff of smoky leather and taking in the custom outfit that should belong on a movie set.
“They’re mandatory for the tourney. Better for you to start training in them now so you’re comfortable by August.” He takes a sip of his coffee, and over the rim, he casually adds, “I made them for you.”
“Wait, what?” I gawk. “You made this?”
“I’m a tailor,” Ori says, turning away to add sugar to his cup. “I make clothes for a living. Don’t overthink it.”