Page 85 of Devoted

“No,” I said softly, squeezing his hand. “That came out clumsily. What I meant to say was, I was able to tolerate it for so long because of how comfortable I was feeling. Normally, that situation would’ve seen me dipping out almost instantly, but I was…surprisingly okay.”

His grin had me wondering how anyone could consider him grumpy. “Good. Comfortable is absolutely how I want you to feel while you’re here.”

We started walking again, and I realised how lucky I was. For the next seven days, I was going to be spending time with these people. With Zeke.

If I didn’t fuck it up, there might be a chance for something more. For something I hadn’t let myself hope for in a very long time.

A happy future.

18

Ezekiel

We got back to my suite and I automatically followed Sam into his room before realising what I was doing. “Shit, sorry.”

He shot me an amused look as he rifled through his bag. “For what?”

“For coming into your room.” I was already retreating for the door. “I know you don’t like people in your personal space.”

Understanding flickered in his eyes. “That doesn’t apply to you, Zeke.”

“It doesn’t?”

He ducked his head like he didn’t want me to see his blush. I caught it though, the pink hue making my chest puff. “Nope. I know it might sound stupid, but my brain has decided you’re a safe person.”

I shoved my hands into my pockets to stop myself reaching out and pulling him into my arms. Despite our earlier closeness, I was still unsure what the boundaries were. “Well, you’ll never be safer with anyone else than me.”

Sam winked at me. “Good, because thanks to my OCD, I’ve probably imagined murdering people in more ways than you’d even know was possible.”

His unexpected comment had me laughing. Not just because of how funny it was, but because of the irony. If there was an unusual way to murder someone, not only had I thought of it, I’d likely done it.

Being an angel didn’t excuse you from battle and torture. My body was as much of a weapon as any demon’s. The only difference was the hand that wielded it.

“Is it strange for you, making fun of your OCD like that?”

“Fuck no. Gotta laugh or you’ll cry. Besides, what good is all this mental illness and trauma if it doesn’t make me funny?”

“That’s true,” I said, as Sam continued rummaging. He’d located the screen of his laptop and was, I assumed, now hunting for the other half. Thankfully none of the glass had dislodged from it—I suspected he wouldn’t have been able to touch it if it had. “Mind you, I don’t think anyone finds me funny. I don’t have mental illness, but I do have the trauma part covered.”

Sam straightened suddenly. “You do?”

Balls. Hadn’t meant to let that slip. It wasn’t like I was going to keep it from Sam—he was my mate, I wanted to share everything with him—but how could I share what my father had put me through without also revealing my true nature?

“Who doesn’t?” My lips twisted in a wry smile. “Such is the way of the modern world.”

And the ancient one.

“True,” Sam said, a small pinch between his brows. “You know you can talk to me about that stuff, right?”

“I know.”

Sam bit his lip. “Is it weird that I said that? It’s not, right? Like, we’re friends. It’s okay that we share with each other and—oof.”

His face was now pressed against my chest. With him beginning to spiral, there’d been no fighting my impulses. Sam said touch grounded him, and hopefully he was telling the truth.

“I feel as comfortable with you as you do with me,” I said. “It’s not weird that you said that. We’re definitely friends…and I’d like to be more than that.”

“Me too,” he whispered, relaxing into my chest. “I’d like that a lot.”

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