Page 59 of Her Name in Red
The toilet flushes, and a minute later Maren emerges, still gloriously naked, her hair a tangled mess around her shoulders. She catches me looking at my back in the mirror and smirks.
“There you go, golden boy,” she says, leaning against the doorframe. “I peed, and no UTIs will be making an appearance.” Her eyes drift to my reflection, to the claw marks she left. “Huh. Looks like I fucked up your back a little bit.” She doesn't sound sorry at all. “You deserved it.”
“Yeah, you did,” I agree, turning to face her. “And you're lucky I'm not a peacock strutting around to show everyone my back and your claim on me.”
She yawns, stretching her arms above her head like a lazy, satisfied cat.
“Well, enjoy the marks then,” she says with that dangerous little smirk. “Consider it a gift.”
Before I can process what she means, she grabs a pillow off the bed and fucking launches it at my face. I catch it reflexively, confused.
“There's a blanket on the back of the couch,” she continues, casual as hell, like she's telling me about the fucking weather. “It should be warm enough for your nap.”
I stand there, pillow in hand, my brain struggling to catch up. “What the fuck?”
“What?” She raises an eyebrow, that perfect mask of indifference sliding into place.
“What do you mean 'what'?” I toss the pillow back onto the bed. “I'm sleeping here. With you.”
She laughs—actually fucking laughs—a short, sharp sound without humor. “No, you're not.”
“Maren—” I start, but she cuts me off.
“Respect my boundaries, Riggs.” Her voice drops, turns to ice. “You get the couch, or you can get the fuck out. Your choice.”
My jaw clenches so hard I'm surprised my teeth don't crack. “Are you serious right now? After what we just did? After I was literally inside you ten minutes ago?”
“Sex doesn't equal sleepovers,” she says flatly. “I don't do that.”
“Bullshit.” I step closer, crowding her space. “You're pushing me away because you're scared.”
Her eyes flash dangerously. “Don't pretend you know what I'm thinking.”
“I know exactly what you're thinking,” I growl, backing her against the wall. “You're thinking if you let me stay, if you let me hold you while you sleep, it makes this real. Makes us real.”
She tilts her chin up defiantly. “There is no 'us,' Riggs.”
Something inside me snaps. I slam my palm against the wall beside her head, making her flinch. “Don't give me that shit. You don't fuck someone like you just fucked me if there's no 'us.'”
Her eyes are cold, calculating. “Maybe I just wanted to get off.”
“Liar.” I lean in until my lips are inches from hers. “You're so full of shit your eyes are turning brown.”
“I'm being serious, Riggs.” Her voice shifts, losing its edge. Something in her eyes changes—not softening exactly, but becoming more...real. “Just respect that.”
The fight drains out of me like someone pulled a fucking plug. I step back, running a hand through my hair, tugging at the roots until it hurts.
“Fine,” I mutter, grabbing the pillow off her bed again.
Stalking away from the bed, I throw the pillow onto the couch with more force than necessary, then grab the blanket she mentioned.
I lay there, listening to the sounds of her moving around in the bedroom behind the makeshift divider. The soft pad of her feet on the hardwood. The rustle of sheets.
Minutes tick by. Five. Ten. Fifteen. I stare at the water stain on her ceiling, counting the cracks that spider out from it. Twenty. Twenty-five. Thirty.
I can hear her tossing and turning, the bed creaking with each movement. She's restless and can't get comfortable.
I close my eyes, not because I'm sleepy but because I'm tired of looking at her shitty ceiling. The couch springs dig into my back where her nails left their mark earlier. The scratches sting, but I like it. Physical proof that I was inside her, that she lost control because of me.
