Chapter Eight #3
“I won’t let anything happen to you,” I promise him.
My skin aches with the force of everything I want to say, all the promises and oaths I want to lay at his feet.
“And if being associated with Urzoth is making you afraid, we’ll undo it.
I’ll get you out. Say the word, say anything, and it’s yours. ”
Alexo’s eyes shift through mine, his posture wilting. “You really mean that.”
“I do. Anything.”
“Because you want to pull away from Urzoth yourself.”
My shoulders rise slightly, a twitch wobbling my hand on his face.
His lips pulse in a sad smile. “You don’t exactly hide it. And if you—”
“Hey,” I cut him off, trying to be gentle. “No deflecting. Not now.”
A heavy sigh, and he steps away from me, scrubbing his hands on his arms, walking in an agitated circle in front of the couch.
He faces me again, fighting hard for resolve, but exhaustion sweeps over him, making his eyelashes flutter. “It’s jarring. The Galaxrien threat feels closer than it did before, that’s all. It’s upsetting, right? Anyone would be upset.”
Yeah. They would.
Like the Urzoth church, who has now been directly affronted by the extremists.
How will they respond to that?
I scratch the back of my neck and purposefully do not look at my abandoned phone, do not think of all the messages likely pouring in from my mom, from the Hellhounds, from Reverend Drach.
“Can I stay?” Alexo whispers. “Tonight. Just to sleep.”
There’s so much more we should talk about. I should demand answers, real answers, about whatever he’s running from. I should give him my own answers about Urzoth, and how I want to, need to, renounce him.
But Alexo sways, chest expanding on a deep inhale, and I cross the room to wrap my arms around him. He sinks against me with a contented groan that floods my body in warmth.
It’s on my tongue to tell him no—I’ve only ever slept in the same bed as Seb.
But why the hell did I bring Alexo up here then? I want him to stay. I want to fall asleep with him in my arms.
“Yes,” I say. I trail my thumb back and forth where his body chain cups the nape of his neck. “But, um—here’s something else real about me.”
He pushes away to look up at me, driven by the anxiety strumming my words like guitar strings.
“I have nightmares,” I tell him. “I might wake up defensive or panicked. It doesn’t always happen, but you should be aware. If you still want to stay.”
He pushes up onto his toes to kiss me tenderly.
“I still want to stay,” he says, and I sigh down into him.
I guide him to the bedroom and dig a T-shirt out of my suitcase for him, a white one with the demon dog logo and my number on it.
Any of the pants I have would be absurd on him, but the shirt should be big enough to serve as a sleep gown.
He takes the hotel-provided toothbrush since I brought my own toiletries, and I leave him in the bathroom.
By the time I’ve changed into plaid sleep pants and propped myself up on the bed, the bathroom door opens.
Alexo comes out absolutely swimming in my shirt, the collar plunging off one shoulder, the hem down around his calves. My number, 64, is huge across the chest.
My hand clenches in the sheet and I know I growl, feel it bubble up my throat, but fuck if I care.
He’s in my clothes, wearing my number. Probably still smells like me from earlier, too.
He shifts nervously next to the bed, scratching the back of his ankle with his toes.
Are his toes—
Yep. They’re painted pink.
Fucking kill me. Now. End this torture.
“Just sleeping,” he says again, half a question.
I relax my fists. “Just sleeping. Here.”
I stack some of the pillows down the center of the bed, but Alexo shakes his head.
“No. I—I trust you.” He scratches his ear and mutters, “It’s me I don’t trust.”
He’s looking at my bare chest, his eyes following the whorls of dark hair across my pecs, down my abs, to the thinner trail below my navel.
It’s the first time he’s seen me shirtless, and I fight the urge to flex, to really nail home the fact that yeah, I’ve got an athlete’s build, and I work hard for it.
His lust-filled gaze meanders back up—and stops on the scar that cuts down my left shoulder.
The way he’s looking at me changes, goes from appreciative and hungry to analytical.
He takes me in again, clocking other places now: the edge of a scar peeking out beneath the hair on my stomach; a dimpled spot to the side of my pec.
“Rawball injuries?” he asks.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “Most of them.”
He looks back at the scar on my shoulder. Maybe because it’s the oldest, or the biggest, white and puckered and jagged.
Unease sours my stomach, taints all the delicious feelings that bubbled up at seeing him in my clothes.
“Camp Merethyl” is all I make myself say.
Alexo’s brow tugs down. He lifts the hem of the shirt to climb onto the bed, knee-walks closer to me, and lays his hand on the curve of my deltoid. His thumb barely brushes the edge of the scar and he’s staring at it, a dark look on his face, a weighty drop of fury.
With the trial, a lot of the details were public. Hell, all the details, at least what that camp did to Seb. To me. We rehashed it in the courtroom and then people spent months rehashing it online and in the media, and by the look on Alexo’s face, he knows it all.
How Camp Merethyl tried to set me and Seb up as an elite type of arcane soldier, an ouroboros partnership, they called it.
A pairing they could send into remote locations, and because I was with Seb, he’d always have access to most of the components he’d need for spell work.
Iron, calcium, bones, hair. I would’ve been his living, breathing component supply.
Our final test was a room slowly filling with water, and we could either drown, die of hypothermia, or Seb could use the iron in my blood to break the ward on the door and get us out.
I ripped open my shoulder to get him what he needed.
“I think I understand,” Alexo whispers. “Why people wish you’d gone all Urzoth-rage on the camp. They deserve it.”
I fight back a shiver at his touch. “They might have, but I didn’t. I didn’t deserve to have to do that to them.”
His gaze swings to mine.
And he smiles, a half-cocked offering. “See? The strongest person I’ve ever met.”
“No,” I say. “I’ve thought about it a lot.
Gone over every day we spent there. What could I have done differently?
How could I have been stronger, been braver, been more like Urzoth?
But it wouldn’t have made a difference. Because when it mattered, when I really needed strength, it wasn’t Urzoth who saved me.
It was Seb. He did what he needed to do to get us out.
Every time anyone talks about Urzoth’s strength, all I can think is that I know true strength.
I’ve seen it. And it was never from me or a god. ”
Alexo runs his fingers over the scar, following the jagged line up and down. “Would Seb say you saved him, too? That you’re the reason he got out?”
A beat passes. Just a flicker of hesitation.
Because yeah. He would.
Alexo smiles triumphantly. “I’m going to make you realize you’re strong if it kills me, Orok.”
He’s so close, hovering over me on his knees, still touching my shoulder.
I pull back the comforter on his side, mouth too dry to say anything, afraid if I do speak, I’ll snivel pathetically.
“Can you—” He sighs, self-deprecating. “Can you hold me?”
Holy hell, are you kidding me, YES might be too aggressive a response, so I say, “Yeah.”
His timid smile. Shit.
Shit shit shit.
All of this.
Just.
Shit.
I rearrange the pillows to give him space, and as he crawls in, puts his back to me with that bare shoulder sticking up, I clear my throat.
“If you, uh, feel anything that wakes up because of this position, ignore it. I will.”
He cradles his head on a pillow, the side of his mouth pushing up in a grin. “Noted.”
I click off the light and pull the covers over us as I shimmy down behind him.
His body fits. His smaller frame nestles into my larger one, his legs curled up so I slot my knees under his thighs, my chin over his head, my arm around his waist. He pushes his fingers in between mine and holds our hands against his stomach, lifting his head so my other arm can slide under his pillow.
My hips bump up against his ass and I choke down the gravelly moan that wants to come out, and I think he must guess, because I feel an aborted chuckle vibrate in his chest.
I bury my face in his curls and inhale so deep my lungs hurt at the pressure. Apples and brightness and a heady musk that’s him. I’m intoxicated.
After we both settle, our even breaths softly filling the dark room, he hums. “It’s been a long time since anyone’s held me. Thank you.”
I pull him closer, pressing around him more firmly, immovable.
“You don’t have to thank me,” I say, and lay a kiss on the sharpness of his bare shoulder. “This is exactly where I want to be.”
He shivers.
And I could so easily keep kissing his warm skin, trail my lips up the side of his neck and nibble on his ear until he’s writhing in my arms.
I drop my head to the pillow, digging my teeth into my tongue. “Goodnight, my Belle.”
“Goodnight,” a pause, “my big O.”
I snort into his hair and he laughs, too.
“Fuck yeah, I’m your big O,” I say, and his answering squeak when I bite his neck is the sweetest send-off I could ask for.