11. Jules #2
“It would have allowed me to prepare emotionally.”
“You would have complained for the duration of the drive.”
“Exactly. Preparation.”
She looks at my bag again. “Move it.”
I lie back across the bed instead, arms spread. “Make me.”
Something flickers through the bond. Annoyance, sharp and cool, immediately followed by the rigid sensation of Camille refusing to engage with me on principle.
Her eyes narrow. “You are behaving like a child.”
“And you’re trying to steal my bed on our honeymoon.”
“This is not our honeymoon.”
I glance around the aggressively romantic suite. “The room disagrees.”
“We are here for the tour.”
“Married. In Vegas. In a golden, romantic suite.” I prop myself up on my elbows. “Honestly, Camille, at a certain point denial just becomes embarrassing.”
She studies me for one long second, then picks up my bag.
“Hey.”
She carries it to the other bed and sets it down with insulting precision. “Resolved.”
I sit up. “You can’t relocate my claim.”
“I just did.”
“That is an abuse of marital power.”
“That is not a real concept.”
“Spoken like a tyrant.”
She turns toward the desk, apparently satisfied the conflict is over.
Cute.
I get up, cross the room, and move her tablet to the nightstand beside the other bed.
Camille stops. Very slowly, she looks at me. I smile.
The bond hums between us, her irritation pressing against my amusement until the two blur into something warm and strangely energizing.
“We can do this all night,” I tell her.
“I have no doubt you can.”
That almost sounds like admiration.
Probably isn’t.
Still taking it.
Camille exhales once, controlled and visibly pained. “Fine. Take the bed.”
Victory flares through me, bright enough that she must feel it through the bond.
Her eyes narrow further.
I grin and drop onto the mattress. “Happy honeymoon, wife.”
She collects her tablet and moves to the other side of the room. “I already regret this marriage.”
“Aw.” I stretch out against the pillows and look through the glass at our faces glowing across the Las Vegas skyline. “Our first shared feeling.”
A knock interrupts me before I can escalate, which I absolutely would have.
“Room service,” a voice calls.
I bound off the bed and open the door.
Kevin stands there holding a tray and garment bag like he’s been personally assigned to improve my life. He seems to go wherever Camille goes, a quietly competent shadow trailing behind her from city to city. In all honesty, it’s a little creepy, but he’s holding coffees and I can be easily bribed.
“Hi,” I say. “You look like good news.”
He smiles, easy and warm. “I try.”
He steps inside and sets everything down with practiced ease. “Coffee.” He hands me a cup. “Oat milk, extra shot.”
I blink at it. “Did you memorize that, or...?”
“You mentioned it once.”
I love him. The decision is immediate.
“For you,” he says, turning to Camille with the second cup.
I glance at it. “Let me guess. Iced. No sugar. Efficient.”
“Correct.”
Of course it is.
Camille accepts the drink without comment. She doesn’t check it, question it, or offer a correction. She just takes it like Kevin knowing exactly what she needs is an established part of the universe.
“Let me know if you need anything else,” he says, already heading for the door.
“I do. Can you get me a different room?”
He grins. “I’ll see what I can do.”
He won’t, but I appreciate the emotional support.
The door closes behind him, and the suite falls quiet again. Too quiet.
Camille turns toward me. “All right.”
Oh, no. That is a we’re about to have rules tone.
“I’m going to stop you right there.” I hold up one hand. “I don’t agree to any rules you’re about to invent.”
“Separate beds,” she continues over me.
Rude.
“No unnecessary interaction. No deviation from the established narrative in public.”
“Okay, that one’s fair.”
“And no unscripted flirting.”
I stare at her. “You married me, and now I’m not allowed to flirt with you? That feels backwards.”
“It’s inefficient.”
“It’s fun.”
“Irrelevant.”
I clutch my chest. “I can’t believe you’re trying to take joy away from me like this.”
She doesn’t react. Of course she doesn’t.
I drop onto my bed and bounce once for dramatic emphasis. “Wow. My wife is no fun. Tragic.”
“Go to sleep.”
“It’s eight o’clock, and your boy toy just brought us coffees.”
“Then be quiet.”
She doesn’t dignify boy toy with a response. Fair. Kevin looks like he could be someone’s dad, not Camille’s secret torrid affair.
Then again, dads are entitled to torrid affairs too, aren’t they? I look at Camille again. Platinum hair, icy eyes, cream silk, all that polished control. I consider it, her and Kevin. Then I immediately shake my head.
Yeah, no. Definitely not.
I stretch out and stare at the ceiling.
After a few seconds, I notice something strange. The constant buzzing beneath my skin has lowered. It isn’t gone, exactly. Just quieter.
I glance toward Camille again. She’s already seated at the desk with her tablet open, typing like she’s filing a lawsuit against existence itself. The longer she sits there, solid and focused and irritatingly present, the steadier I feel.
Huh.
That’s probably the bond.
Obviously.
Nothing to do with her.
I roll onto my side, pull out my phone, and open the Midnight Halo group chat.
JULES: Room update: I have been imprisoned in a honeymoon suite with a hostile blonde.
The typing bubbles appear almost immediately.
REMY: What did you do now?
I narrow my eyes at the screen.
JULES: Nothing. Allegedly.
KAIA: Are the wards intact?
JULES: Romance is alive and well, thanks for asking.
KAIA: Jules.
JULES: Yes, Mom. The wards are glowing. Bane has protected us from demons, intruders, and apparently separate accommodations.
MINA: How is sharing a room with Camille actually going?
I glance across the suite. Camille hasn’t looked up, but something cool and suspicious brushes the bond.
Can she feel me talking about her?
Interesting.
JULES: Like sleeping beside a very attractive compliance seminar.
Remy reacts with a skull. Mina sends several laughing emojis. Kaia responds with:
KAIA: Be nice.
JULES: I am being incredibly nice.
Across the room, Camille says, “You are not subtle.”
I look up. “I have no idea what you mean.”
“Go get ready for bed.”
I sit up. “You are not in charge of my bedtime.”
“It took you forty minutes to get ready this morning.”
“That’s because beauty requires time.”
She returns to her tablet, which I choose to interpret as surrender.
My bedtime routine takes thirty-five minutes.
I cleanse, moisturize, add the eye serum Mina swears is changing my life, and stand in front of the mirror wrestling my dyed red hair into something that won’t look electrocuted tomorrow.
Eventually, I twist it up and secure a silk scarf around it, then inspect myself from three angles.
Cute.
Married, but still cute.
Revolutionary.
My phone lights up with a notification from my sister. Just a heart beneath the photo I sent earlier of the Strip, followed by a demand that I call her tomorrow.
For a second, I consider FaceTiming her now.
She would answer from Mamá‘s kitchen, probably with half the family talking over her before she managed to say hello. Someone would ask whether I’m eating enough.
One of my tías would demand to see the ring.
My sister would take one look at Camille in the background and immediately become unbearable.
I miss them with an ache that arrives too suddenly to joke away.
Tour has barely started. Get a grip.
I send my sister three hearts and promise to call after soundcheck tomorrow.
When I step back into the suite, Camille is still at the desk, but she changed. Her cream blouse has been replaced with a cream sleep shirt, which is somehow both entirely predictable and deeply offensive.
“Do you own another color?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Prove it.”
“No.”
I climb into bed and pull the blankets around me. The Strip burns beyond the windows, all neon and noise, but the suite remains quiet.
Camille keeps working.
The bond hums between us, low and steady.
I should find it invasive. I should hate that her presence has lodged itself somewhere beneath my pulse, calming parts of me I didn’t realize were still running.
Instead, my eyes grow heavy almost immediately.
Everything is fine.
Completely fine.
“Good night, wife,” I mumble.
Camille’s typing pauses. “Good night, Jules.”
It is the first time she’s said my name without making it sound like an incident report.