Page 75 of A Storm of Fire and Ash
I hated him.
I hated how tall he was. That silver hair, wild but deliberate. That perfectly chiseled jaw I wanted to punch. Or kiss. Or maybe both. And those eyes—green like spring and forest leaves and danger. And gods, even his mouth—all smug curves and well-shaped lips that made me want to scream. I hated it all. At least that’s what I told myself.
I clenched my fists as I climbed the steps to the castle, my magic still buzzing faintly beneath my skin.
By the time I reached the chamber—his chamber—I was shaking. I threw the door open, kicked off my boots, and all but collapsed onto the bed.
Hisbed.
Ha! That would show him.
I smiled lazily to myself and buried my face in the pillow and let out a muffled groan.
I hiccupped again and then passed out.
Chapter Nineteen
I woke drenched in sweat, my clothes sticking to my skin, my limbs tangled in the blankets. My head pounded with the dull ache of too much wine and not enough sense.
Gods, what was I wearing?
Everything, apparently.
The soft morning light spilled through the tall windows, casting a golden warmth across the chamber. The sheets were tangled beneath me, one leg draped over something warm and solid. Too warm.
I blinked.
My thigh was thrown across a body. A very hard, very male body.
Zayn’s body.
Shit.
I cursed under my breath and slowly—carefully—lifted my head.
He was fast asleep, one arm behind his head, chest rising and falling in the slow rhythm of deep rest. My entire torso was half across his, my arm sprawled over his abdomen like I belonged there. His shirt was gone.
Of course it was.
I stared for a second longer than I meant to.
Was he naked…
Half tempted to lift the sheet, I shook my head.
Then I remembered every frustrating thing he said to me last night. The smugness. The gods-damned towel incident.
I pushed myself off him, biting back a wince as the bed creaked slightly. He didn’t stir.
Good.
I tiptoed across the room, grabbed the first clean tunic and trousers I could find, and ducked into the bath chamber. I relieved myself, splashed cold water on my face, and peeled off my wrinkled, sweat-soaked clothes.
“Just once,” I muttered, “could I not wake up in some sort of disaster?”
As I pulled on the new clothes, a faint shimmer of magic sparked from my hand. A soft, glowing Mage Hand appeared; it hovered over my hand and then raised—gentle and familiar—and began brushing through my tangled hair.
“Thanks,” I whispered.
