CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
BUNNY
Getting inside the house, I break my hand away from Razor’s, trying my hardest to send him a convincing smile. But I only have one thing on my aching mind at the moment. And that’s shutting myself in my room and getting those keys.
“Good night,” I hum.
Wounded by me walking toward my room without him, affliction narrows his eyes, his thumbs swiftly flicking outward. “You don’t want me sleepin’ with you tonight?”
I do. You make me feel safe.
The thought of going to bed without his hands on me, the slight roughness drawing up my hip and waist, his warm body flush against mine and ramping up the heat, punches guilt straight into my chest.
Hating myself, I shake my head, forcefully cutting the rope keeping us tethered and rushing to my room with tears burning the whites of my eyes.
“Wait! Bun!”
Ignoring Razor, I close my door and wipe my eyes. Things would be so different if I wasn’t manipulated. If he treated me normally, we could be coming in here and grabbing that key to take off together.
Realistically, the key wouldn’t even be this big thing. If things were conventionally normal around here, I wouldn’t have unanswered questions that make me sneak around. I’d just be existing and living life. Like a normal person. But no, normalcy would be a delicacy.
Apparently talking some sense into myself, I rake a hand up into my hair, holding it out of my face to focus on my mission.
“I need my sweats!” Razor hollers through the wood.
They’re…
Moving toward the sheet still on the floor, my eyes slice and dice every which way, searching for the bunched-up gray fabric.
But his pants are gone.
“Bunny!”
What the frick?
A cold chill scatters along my arms, quickly turning for the door and opening it for him. “I don’t see them in here.”
His scowl guts me, moving out of his way and watching him stop next to the sheet I just investigated.
“I left them here.” He turns back to me, his eyes darkening.
“I know… You tried getting me in the shower with you.”
“So… where are they?” he lazily hikes a brow, taking deft steps until the toes of his shoes are touching mine.
Feeling like the blame is quickly getting shifted to me, my forehead stiffens and my jaw locks. “I didn’t touch them. I was gone all day,” bleeds through the cracks of my teeth.
“Oh, yeah, that’s right.” Theatrically tossing his head back, a manic smile splits his face and he steps closer. “You thought you could hop off into a tent you have no business being in. How could I forget that?”
Duse… Duse actually told him. Great.
My cheeks blister, the scalding sear of vexation burning my ears. “I wouldn’t have to sneak around if you guys were honest with me.”
Shock widens his eyes, his crazy smile growing larger with the drop of his jaw. “You’re admitting that shit? So, you are sneaking around.” Slamming his teeth shut, the ticking muscles in his jaw flex his ears back, the warmth of his eyes becoming bottomless.
“Get out of my room, Razor.” I shake, fighting off the bomb of angst lighting up my nerves.
Lowering himself down, the tobacco on his breath fans my lips, inducing a haze that carousels my head and flutters my stomach. “Make me,” he whispers.
Silence hangs between us, each breath coming out a little harsher, the unspoken ire sinking the air with humidity.
It gets hotter. And hotter. And hotter. The increased temperature flushes his cheeks. He’s so close, I can make out the individual beads of sweat percolating along his freckles and moles, the warmth of his hooded mahogany flaring to life with carnality.
Why do the worst things feel the best?
“I’m gonna shower.” I break the silence.
Nodding vaguely, his gaze flits down to my lips. “Okay. While we’re in there, you can tell me where you hid my shit.”
“I didn’t invite you,” I hum back, my head angling.
“You’ve already given me the RSVP to your body.”
I shudder. “Are you punishing me for something I didn’t do?”
“Bunny…” Heat wafts as he lowers himself down over my shoulder, his lips brushing the hair covering my ear. “If I was punishing you, you’d be screaming.”
Pressure drains through my pelvis, starting up an ache that demands for him to relieve it.
I’m sure he can sense that. That I need him.
He’s drifting back to loom over me with a cocky smile, going as far as gently rolling his bottom lip between his teeth for a taunting nip that reawakens a phantom across my throat.
“I’m tired, Razor.” Having to swallow excess saliva, I take a break from his eye contact and move toward the closet, hooking my hands around the hem of my tank top and lifting it off. “I can’t do this with you tonight.”
“You don’t wanna play with me?”
“I have a lot on my mind,” I rasp, chucking my top into the hamper and kicking my boots off.
“You can talk to me. You know that right?”
“Can I?” Snapping up, our eyes lock. “Or are you just gonna play with my head, make me think I’m special, worthy of anything other than the goddamn dread of being stuck in this place?”
Oh… Woah. I don’t know where that just came from.
Taking in his brief display of surprise, regret swells up through my face. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”
Looking at me a moment longer, his sweaty hair falls around his eyes with a nod—then he’s leaving my room.
My throat thickens, succumbing to the glaze pervading my sight, listening to the latch of the door click into place.
It’s fine. This is good. Razor leaving you alone is good. Yes. Good. Good. It’s really good.
Mechanically moving across the room, my own voice plays on loop through my head, over and over, my vision narrowed to the film growing milkier the farther my mind stretches away from me.
I manage to get my pajama drawer open. Really, it’s just stretchy, cotton shorts and a variety of cropped or oversized shirts.
I guess it’s not really a pajama drawer if they’re nothing special.
I didn’t get these clothes as strictly pajamas.
All of us girls passed around the clothes that were left here for us until we had our own wardrobes built.
So, it’s just a drawer of clothes I use for bedtime. Right? Or would that make them pajamas even though they didn’t come with a pajama label? What makes a pajama a pajama?
“Comfort,” I answer myself softly, still siphoned into the blurry vortex.
My hand twitches, scathing the folded clothes I know I need to focus on, so that I’m not standing here drooling and staring at the wall.
“Talkin’ to yourself again?”
Razor’s gentle voice pulls me out of the dissociative state, his calloused palms coasting around my waist, one slipping down the back of my thigh.
The eruptive sensation of him easily scooping me up into his arms burns me alive.
Like, someone shouting clear and an electric current running through my heart, the shockwaves shaking my veins.
Confused, my hands latch around the back of his neck, watching my room whizz by with his long-legged stride out into the hallway. I’d be self-conscious about everyone seeing me in my bra if he wasn’t blocking my torso while turning into the bathroom.
The shower faucet is running on full blast, jetting into the vat of water and rumbling the floor, and a candle’s lit on the sink, the flame dancing along the walls and calming the room, emanating a subtle scent of vanilla beneath the cheap wax.
“What’s this for?” I ask quietly.
Setting me down on my feet near the tub, his fingers tenderly trace up my back, the chill of his touch straightening my spine. He smiles, stitching our eyes together while finding the clasp of my bra. “You.”
“Yeah… I figured, but… why?”
His eyes thin with concentration, his lips tensing and his fingertips tapping disorderly to find the right motion needed to unclasp my bra. “Because I care about you.” His mouth twists the other way, his brows falling lower the longer he takes fumbling to release the hooks.
I try to control my grin, biting the inside of my bottom lip, my cheeks tightening. “Do you need help?”
“No, I’m gonna do this… All by myself,” he says under his breath, still concentrating.
His patience blows to smoke. He’s swiftly caging my ribs and forcing me around. I spin in my socks, facing the tub and getting stopped abruptly by his hand on my waist, the other already attacking the clasp.
“What is going on back here?” he seethes.
It doesn’t feel right to laugh, considering how mean I was to him just a few minutes ago, so I shelter the amusement in my chest. I know I cry a lot. Sometimes for no reason at all. But snapping on him just for him to turn around and do something sweet for me is biting at my eyes.
Blinking through the sting, the clasp releases the band around my ribs, the light weight of my boobs dropping with the slack in the straps.
I go to turn around to say I’m sorry again, but his tender touch is drawing up my shoulder blades, effortlessly wedging his fingers beneath the straps and teasing them down.
My escalating pulse drowns me in the running faucet, that same pressure of being underwater pressing against my ears.
He’s so quiet. It’s daunting when he’s quiet.
Insecure thoughts fly through my mind. Like, what if he’s judging the slight curve in my spine? Or what if I have split ends shedding over his hands?
It makes me shift, manifesting random itchy spots along my back and scalp. Those things become small to me as my bra comes off my body, the performative flame reflecting off the water and swathing across my nipples.
He steps away to set my bra on the counter, replacing his body heat with a light breeze against my backside. He could’ve just dropped it. But he didn’t.
The notion that he pays attention to me, understands that tiny things like my bra or underwear on the floor tightens threads of angst through my veins, has me looking back to the rumbling tub with a grin.
It’s almost full, so I grab our shower screwdriver and lean over the tub, jamming the flathead into the sweet spot to twist the water off.
“Come sit,” he hums.
Setting the screwdriver down on the edge of the tub, I turn to him sitting on the toilet, his hands politely beckoning me.
As much as I’d love to shy away from how gentle he’s being with me right now, my body is moving toward his comfort and I’m taking a seat sideways on his lap.
The orange glow of the flame is slashed across his eyes, richening the golden mahogany and adding a twinkle.
He combs his fingers through my hair, wearing a content, lazy grin, his soft fingertips raking down the back of my neck. He doesn’t say anything. Just lightly tucks my hair around my ear and smooths it down my shoulder blades, then carefully brings each of my legs up to slip my socks off.
Waiting for him to finish rolling them into each other, another apology weighs on my chest as I stare at the water, feeling him stretch over to the side to set my socks on the sink.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him again.
Straightening up against me, he brings his palms to my thighs and places a languid kiss on my shoulder. “Don’t ever be sorry for saying how you feel.” He uses that slow, quiet, rusty voice that sneaks into my spine, dispensing a drip of dopamine.
“But I don’t know if that’s how I feel.” I look at him, my fingers twitching on my lap. “I feel it sometimes. But…”
“It’s okay,” he whispers, glancing around the bathroom. “This isn’t great. And it’s not forever. But it’s what we have right now.”
It’s what we have right now.
Tears slip over my waterlines, falling freely down my cheeks before I can choke my emotions down. He’s not happy here. He’s just happy to be here.
He takes his time raising his hand to my face, using his thumb to dry my tears with adoration softening his eyes. “Come on.”
Getting up with me, he gives me a moment of being back on my feet, then he’s crouching down and languidly slipping my panties off.
It’s not at all like when he ripped them down and threw them across the room with a carnal drive. It’s sensual and attentive, like there’s an ache under his ribs for me, like he’d garner my bones when I’m too frail to bend.
I step out of the white cotton around my ankles, wiping the extra tears breaking loose through my lashes. He’s implementing the same care into my underwear as the rest of my clothes, doing the most thoughtful fold before standing up with them and placing them with my bra on the sink.