Page 40 of Avidian
“Why would you do that?” I study him, hesitant, my arms crossing over my chest.
“Just because you don’t like me doesn’t mean I can’t do something nice,” he says, amused and exasperated. “You’ve had a rough night, Kat, and contrary to what you might think, I’m not a complete monster.”
He sets my heels neatly on the mantle, their delicate straps hanging over the edge, and then strides into the bathroom. A moment later, I hear the rush of water filling the tub, the sound oddly soothing despite my still-jumbled nerves.
I remain rooted to the spot, staring after him, unsure whether to be grateful, suspicious, or both. “You didn’t strike me as the ‘bubble bath and pampering’ type,” I call out.
“You’d be surprised,” he responds, his voice echoing faintly over the sound of the faucet. And for some reason, that annoyingly smug tone of his almost makes me smile.
Chapter Twelve
RULE 12 OF THE NEW ORDER: FIRST IMPRESSIONS ARE RARELY THE WHOLE TRUTH. SOMETIMES, THE PERSON YOU LEAST EXPECT BECOMES THE ONE YOU CAN’T IGNORE.
“This is going to be fun,”I mutter under my breath as I step out of the bathroom, feeling better after scrubbing every last trace of blood off me.
The bath helped, though Malachi’s lack of a proper brush made dealing with my wet hair a nightmare. At least his oversized white t-shirt serves as a makeshift nightgown, falling to my knees and sparing me from the burden of wearing his equally ill-fitting pajama pants.
He’s stretched out on top of the bed wearing gray sweats and a white shirt, a book in his hands, looking far too comfortable for my liking. I clear my throat to announce my presence, feeling uncharacteristically awkward. His gaze doesn’t even flick to me. He doesn’t say anything and keeps reading, like I’m a ghost he’s choosing to ignore.
I hesitate for a moment, debating whether to demand he sleep on the floor, but I shove the thought away. I’m an adult. Sharing a bed shouldn’t be a big deal. Right?
“What are you reading?” I ask, craning my neck to catch the title.
He startles, quickly sitting up and shoving the book into the drawer of the nightstand like a kid caught sneaking candy. “Must be good if I caught you off guard,” I tease, crossing my arms and giving him a sly grin.
“It’s okay,” he mutters.
“Oh, really?” I step closer to his side of the bed, and his eyes narrow like he’s trying to figure out what I’m up to. Before he can stop me, I reach over, yank the drawer open, and grab the book.
“Hey!” he protests, making a half-hearted swipe to snatch it back, but I sidestep, flipping the cover up so I can see the title.
“A romance novel?” I blurt out, blinking at the embossed letters and the couple locked in a passionate embrace on the cover.
His ears turn the faintest shade of pink as he crosses his arms, glaring at me. “It’s not a romance novel. It’s…literature.”
“Uh-huh.” I tap the book against my palm, biting back a laugh. “You know, I pegged you as the brooding action thriller type. But this? This is adorable.”
“Are you done?” he grumbles, clearly annoyed but not making a move to take the book back.
“Not even close,” I say, dropping onto the bed next to him and flipping through the pages. “Let’s see what kind of literature you’re into, Malachi.”
“Don’t you have anything better to do?” he asks, exasperated.
“Not really.” I glance over at him, a half-smile starting to form. “Honestly, this is the most fun I’ve had in days.”
“I’m glad making fun of my choice in literature is fun for you. By all means, keep making jokes,” Malachi says, his lips twitch like he’s trying not to smile.
I stop flipping pages when a particularly spicy line catches my eye. Grinning wickedly, I start reading aloud, “‘Calliope grasps his hard length?—’”
Before I can finish, he snatches the book from my hands and shoves it back in the drawer, slamming it shut. “Okay, that’s enough,” he says, clearing his throat.
I burst out laughing, clutching my sides as I flop back onto the bed. “That’s great. Who knew we’d have the same taste in books?” I tease, still giggling.
He gives me a look—a mixture of amusement and irritation—but I catch the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’m glad you think you’re funny,” he mutters, leaning back against the headboard and crossing his arms.
“Oh, I know I’m funny,” I say, sitting up and wiping a stray tear from my eye. “Seriously, you could’ve told me you like romance novels. I wouldn’t have judged. Much.”
He shakes his head, finally letting out a soft chuckle. “You’re impossible.”
