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Chapter Fourteen

Vanessa

It’s Saturday evening. I’ve ordered takeout—again—and even though my foot’s already feeling a lot better, I’m still trying to keep up with the doctor’s suggestion and not do too much. So I’ve only been doing what I do best: working. The news cycle has been mental. It’s been so hard to keep up with. And worse, a lot of news outlets want to hear from me, Vanessa the Wyvern’s girlfriend, not Ms. Theriot, head of The Riot Creative. I’ve had to issue statements, but they’ve been strange to issue—especially from behind the safety of my own computer and especially because they all come from a place of absolute truth.

He’s my hero, and I’m so proud of him. I hope the world is too.

When my doorbell rings, I answer it on a wobbly leg and thank the man who hands the food over. Luckily, he doesn’t seem to recognize me in the slightest, despite the fact that Luca’s pictures of me have been plastered all over the place. Outlets have homed in on them, coupling pictures of my nervous, hopeful face with images of Roland looking like a snow god emerging from the mountain. He recovered all the kids and all the trapped medical staff. Five are in critical condition. Two ... didn’t make it. Sixteen more had significant injuries but are already out of intensive care or out of the hospital, and the rest made it out with bumps and scrapes and nightmares that I’m sure will haunt them for a while. But it’s thanks to Roland that they made it out at all.

I did it for her. That’s what media outlets are reporting he said to Fema staff, but nobody caught it on camera, and I ... definitely don’t believe it. It’s been hours since his plane left Washington. He was helicoptered off-site this morning after almost two days of helping people nonstop. It was ... insane. I’ve been glued to the TV this whole time—and to my phone, since Monika is also a nutjob and is clearly already in need of a raise. The photographs we’ve sold so far have almost paid her entire salary for the year . It’s ... crazy.

Half finished with my sushi, I get distracted by some of the latest pictures Monika sent through. The last one before she signed off shows the Wyvern trying to sleep in the helicopter to the airport. Oh my god, he looks untamed, positively feral.

He’s covered in bloody scrapes and scratches, bruises that have already begun purpling. His head is lolling uncomfortably on his neck, making me wish I could reach through the still frame and hold up his head against the metal backing behind him. He just looks so exhausted. I feel so guilty. I glance down at my phone for about the billionth time since I texted him last night, wishing I hadn’t sent it. But he’s seen it. It’s too late to take it back.

And he didn’t answer.

The doorbell rings, and I swallow my next bite of sushi and wash it down with sparkling water. I’m dragging a little bit from too little sleep and too much adrenaline and worry pumping through my veins at present, but I tell myself it’s nothing compared to what Roland’s been going through or what Monika’s feeling after using a strength bordering on supernatural to keep up with him. And she’s supposedly human. I don’t believe it.

Thinking it’s Elena coming to check on me, as she’s been threatening to do for the past three days—forget the fact that she already did come by this morning—I stagger up to my cherry-red painted front door without bothering to look at what I’m wearing. If I’d taken an extra second to put on a sweater, or a bra, I might have avoided what happened next.

And if I’d taken an extra second to put on that sweater, I might have avoided what happened next ... and regretted it.

I wrench the door open wide without checking the peephole to find Roland on my front step, leaning heavily against my doorframe. His lips are slightly parted as if he’s about to speak, but he looks almost as shocked as I feel to see him standing here, which is strange; he came to me . And then I recognize that he’s not actually looking at me but at my chest. My thin-strapped tank top is white, and even though it’s baggy, it’s almost see-through, and my nipples instantly perk at the first whiff I get of his scent.

“Rol—oh ...” I gasp. I take a half step back on my brace-wrapped leg.

His gaze lifts back to my face. He takes a half step to counter mine, and before I can do or say or think anything more, Rollo’s stepping fully into my space—so close that his still bare scratch- and scrape- and suture-covered abdomen brushes my chest.

I look up at the same time that he dips down. His fingers are so, so soft against my chin and cheek. They flutter; the same hands that wrenched bodies out of the snow with brutality and ferocity, they flutter now. Almost ... trembling. And I no longer remember that we’re in a fight when his lips alight on mine so, so softly.

They’re warm and dry and full beyond belief. He tastes like he smells, like a bonfire. The scratch of his beard on my face is rough, but I still feel myself lifting my bandaged leg while leaning forward onto the ball of my good foot and then onto my tiptoes. But just as my tongue leaves the safety of my lips to taste him ... just a little taste ... he retreats.

He clears his throat, and I fall forward like an idiot and catch myself on his pecs and abdomen before I can place any weight on my bum foot. My fingers scrape over his rough stitches, and I struggle to prop myself back up. “Ohh. Sorry, Rollo. I didn’t ... I’m sorry.” Embarrassment sweeps my chest, and if I were a lighter shade of brown, the heat there would no doubt be visible.

Rollo’s hands are gentle as they cradle my waist and push me up. He leans back down and kisses my temple, and then, as if he isn’t even paying attention, like he’s caught in the dream, he wraps his arms around my shoulders and pulls me into his chest. I stumble again, straight into his heat, and as he holds me, I don’t have a choice—not because he’s so much stronger than I am but because I can feel just how badly he needs this—I hug him back. I wrap my arms around his middle and squeeze as hard as I can until he releases a muffled grunt.

“I’m sorry,” I say, feeling nearly dizzy with emotion. “Are you all right?”

“No.” He chuckles. His hands are on my jaw and neck again. He’s cuffing my neck gently, but it feels ... good. I can’t help the weight that suddenly falls into my lower abdomen ... and then lower than that. “But I feel better after that.”

I give him a little swat to his stomach, not enough to hurt him but enough for him to release me. My cheeks pinch with the restraint it takes me to withhold my grin. “You, um ...”

“I know I shouldn’t have come by, but I didn’t want to crash at a hotel. Can I ...”

“Of course. I mean, yes. You can crash here for as long as you want.” You can move in, if you want. It’s on the tip of my tongue to say it, but I know better than that. We need to talk.

“Thank you, Nessa.” Nessa. “Your guest room upstairs?”

“Um ... yeah, that’s the thing.” He starts into my house, closing the door at his back, and I chase him up the stairs as he starts to stomp up them without me. Well, not chase so much as hobble behind him.

“What’s the thing?” he says, pausing halfway up. “And you’re not supposed to be on your feet.” He grunts, looking upset.

I can’t believe he’s still only in his boxer shorts. I can see medical equipment dangling off his legs. Oh my gosh. “You’re still hurt!”

“Yeah. I’d like to sleep. I’ll find a bedroom. Stay down here unless you’re coming to bed too.”

“I wasn’t ... planning on it yet. And I can sleep in the living room. No worries.”

“No. Not interested in that arrangement. You give a holler when you want to come upstairs, and I’ll carry you.”

I frown, pouting as he moves up another step, and I quickly switch underneath his arm so that I’m standing on the stair above him. It puts us nearly at eye level. It’s so intense. I’m never eye level with him, and this is a level of ... closeness I’m not sure I’m ready for ... I just needed to stop him and explain.

“I’m not going to wake you up. Not after everything you did.”

“After everything I did for you .” His eyes are light pink, white around the pupil, but the longer he stares at me, the lighter his pupils get too. “I’m sorry, Nessa. I am a fucking asshole. I didn’t think about your stuff ... Didn’t mean to call you what I did.”

I inhale deeply, startled by the abrupt change in conversation but grateful he brought it up. When I exhale, I taste relief. “Me either.”

We stand there for another few seconds, uncomfortable ones, but not because I’m still upset. I have the strange desire to reach out and touch him. I manage to restrain myself at the last second, remembering that downstairs he was the one to pull away. Awkwardly, I turn to the side and cock my thumb over my shoulder instead.

“Let me, um ... show you the bed.” I cannot believe how dirty that sounded and wince. He chuckles. While mortification blankets me, I bite my bottom lip and immediately turn and limp up the next step, only for my feet to be swept in the next second. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You can barely walk! Put me down.”

“Not until we get to the top.” He doesn’t set me down then either. Instead, he moves to the left, down the short hall to my room. To the right should have been the other bedroom, but I turned it into a library à la Beauty and the Beast —or Hannibal Lecter’s. There’s a third bedroom up here that’s my office. He peeks inside before moving to the door at the end of the hall.

He steps into my bedroom and only then sets me down. He does a slow turn, only one revolution, taking in the built-in bookcase surrounding my bed, my wide, curved windows that overlook the street below, the reading nook and benches covered in funky, colorful pillows. This is my private little sanctuary. Nobody’s ever been in here before.

“This your room?” he says, glancing past me as if the guest bedroom he expected to find will suddenly make its presence known.

I nod. “That’s what I was trying to tell you before. I ... um ... Well, I never have guests over, so I got rid of my guest room. I only have the one bed. But like I said, I’ll sleep downstairs. It’s no biggie.”

His eyebrows are high on his forehead, making him look like a cartoon character. His mouth opens and closes like a fish. His eyes are big, and the way he holds himself, this big brute of a male covered in war wounds ... he looks so vulnerable.

“I promise. It’s not a big deal.”

“Nessa,” he says in a rough, rough timbre, speaking the moment I start to turn back toward the door. “Not a chance. We’re sharing the bed.”

“Oh ... I ... no.”

“It’s a king, not a big deal. I swear I’m not gonna try to ... make a move or anything.”

Oh my gosh, this is so ... not cool! “Oh, I, um ... it’s not ...”

“I know you’re upset with me, but I’m hurting and need sleep. You look like you need sleep too. You haven’t been staying up watching my feeds, have you?”

I don’t try to lie. I just shake my head. “I’m not ... I’ve never ...”

“I know you’re still pissed at me. I swear to God, I’m not gonna try anything. I’m too tired for that.”

I’m embarrassed that he thinks that I think he’s a pervert, so embarrassed that I fail to control my volume when I shout, “I’ve never done that before.”

He waits for me to say more. I don’t. I just shift my weight between my feet, forcing him to finally blurt, “What?”

“Slept with a guy. Like, overnight. I’m not a virgin, but I’m ... I’ve just never done the sleeping part.” It feels too intimate. Too vulnerable. An exchange of far, far too much trust.

I hear him coming closer. Feel his heat. The backs of his fingers graze my cheek. He whispers, “Look at me.”

I struggle to comply. He doesn’t really give me a choice. I wrap my arms around myself, feeling so exposed, and finally dare to meet his eyes. His brows are drawn, his expression one of absolute consternation. He isn’t giving me anything, not ceding any ground.

“I’m not gonna do anything you don’t want to, but we both need sleep. Couch won’t do. If you don’t want me here, I don’t mind getting a hotel.”

I bite my bottom lip. I’m too scared for this ... It’s a big step ... for me ... and we’re not ... anything. He’s my fake boyfriend, and after our last conversation, I wasn’t sure he’d even want to keep up with the charade. I wasn’t sure I’d want to either. And now ...

“We could try it ... just once,” I whisper.

He rubs his jaw. “Yeah?”

I nod.

He grins, one eyebrow lifted, then surprises me when his tone turns harsh. “On one condition.”

“Wh-what?”

“That you never mention another man to me again.”

I get the chills. His voice is laden with threat. “It was only one guy two times,” I whisper, but he cuts me off by pressing the rough pad of his thumb to my lips.

He leans in close, and I can feel the vibrations of his chest as he growls, “Then he’ll only die twice.” He gives my chin a little pinch. “Come.”

“Wait,” I say, stumbling after him as I try to put myself back together in the absence of his touch. “I have a condition too.”

He smirks. “And what’s that?”

“I know you’re exhausted, but I’m sorry, you’ve got to shower and take out the needles dangling off of your legs first.”

Rollo scowls, but he begrudgingly turns toward the bathroom. “Fine. I shower. You get ready for bed. I’m going down hard, and you’re coming with me.” He disappears into the bathroom without waiting for my answer.

I get him a towel and a fresh toothbrush, but I don’t have any men’s clothes. My brothers have never stayed the night, and I don’t have, uh ... gentlemen callers. I loiter in my library, skimming the titles of books like I don’t know them all by heart. I wait until I hear the shower turn off and then wait a little longer. I have no idea what he’ll do, but he doesn’t shout at me to ask me to get him anything to wear, so I have to assume he’s found an appropriate solution. Maybe he’s just rewearing his boxers?

... Or maybe he’s just in my bed buck-ass naked.

I stare down at the bed—my bed—and the alien spread out all over it. I have a king bed because I’m a diva, but he still takes up so much of it. The blankets that were perfectly made are now totally rumpled, like he’s been sleeping for forty hours even though he must have only just passed out. He’s got one leg straight, covered in blanket, and one hooked at the knee, spread across the middle of my bed, totally naked and exposed up to the groin, which is only just barely covered by a flimsy corner of one thin sheet.

“Don’t bite,” he says, making me jump. “Can feel you having a nervous breakdown, and it’s distracting. Get your ass over here and sleep.”

I snort but still find myself turning off the hall light, padding across my bedroom, and sitting down on the edge of the bed. I’m wearing my pajamas to make up for his lack, but it still feels like I’m naked when I lie on my back and stare up at the ceiling in the dark. It’s so dark in my room, thanks to my blackout curtains, that it makes his presence feel even more menacing. He’s so warm. His heat snakes across the sheets, and ...

I squeak as his hand circles my upper arm and pulls. He drags me over the bed, and, ass-naked as he is, he cups my body with his, lining us up big spoon to little spoon. His body smells like my shampoo, and like smoke and like ... him.

“Relax.” His fingers press firmly into the nape of my neck, massaging down the muscles of my shoulders, down my outer arm. He’s got the blankets drawn up over us both, and as his hand reaches my hand, he laces our fingers together. I find a strange ease in him being close. Feeling him, I don’t have to worry about what he’s doing on his half of the bed. Ironic, since this isn’t exactly what I’d call not doing anything , a promise he made that I’m not so sure he plans to keep ... or if I want him to.