Page 53 of Even Vampires Bleed (Even Ever After #2)

Léandre

I can’t do it.

Five days have passed.

Only five freaking days since I made that deal with Cassiopé.

Yesterday, Angélique visited us and dropped the food.

She stayed the whole afternoon, and I managed to corner her outside so Cassiopé wouldn’t hear.

I asked her about the mattress. At this point, I would be glad even if it was an inflatable mattress—anything other than that damn couch.

Because my back is hurting so fucking much. But I’m hiding it well so far. Cassiopé seems oblivious.

But, damn, this is getting so hard to hide.

It feels like I’ve aged at least fifty years from just a week of sleeping on that hell couch.

I try to get up from the couch and… But I can’t do it.

I’m stuck in a bent position, and my back refuses to straighten.

Fifty years I said? Scratch that, I aged a hundred years since I slept on that couch.

I think I’d be okay if the length was the only issue.

I could sleep in a ball on it and be done with it.

But I can feel all the wires inside of it.

Some of the springs seem to have broken from their initial position and are poking me every which way anytime I move at night, which means I keep waking up.

My back is sore. My neck is sore. Even my butt is sore.

And now this.

And now I’m stuck midair with my back forty-five degrees from being straight and all I can do is curse under my breath because I can’t do it out loud or Cassiopé will know.

She will know and will force me to uphold the deal we made.

And I might have had a shred of belief in myself when I made that deal.

I might have thought I could resist sleeping on my side and avoid touching her in my sleep at that time, but now?

With my sleep deprived state? I have no way of knowing what I would do.

I’m not even sure I would have any self-control.

And what happens if my hands wander and stray to places they’re not supposed to go?

She’ll hate me, and I’ll hate myself even more.

Especially since we’re stuck here together. I don’t want to make things awkward.

And I know that if we end up in the same bed, it’s only a matter of time before I make things awkward.

Very, very awkward.

I won’t even do it on purpose.

It’s already a nightmare as it is now. One long shower isn’t enough. I can’t stop seeing her when I come. I can’t stop seeing her in my sleep. I can’t stop seeing her even when I’m awake.

I live in a constant semi hard state and I have no clue how to stop my predicament.

All the wood cutting isn’t, well… cutting it .

And I feel like I’m going to burst out of my skin.

And now that?

I’m cursed. That is the only explanation.

I’m cursed to lust after the woman sharing my space when it’s not reciprocated.

And worse, the universe seems to do everything in its power to bring us closer.

Any closer and everything is going to explode.

Oh yes, I’m talking about my cock here.

I hear the sound of Cassiopé’s bedroom door opening—I hate those screechy hinges most of the time, but now they’re a blessing—and drop back on the couch.

I’m in a somewhat normal sitting position when she walks to the kitchen and grabs bacon and eggs from the cooler.

I would normally get up and help her cook our breakfast, but all I can do is stay as still as I can and keep myself from groaning. Because, in my haste, I sat on a spring and it’s trying to make a second asshole.

I really didn’t ask for that this early in the morning.

“Morning,” Cassiopé says as a yawn escapes her mouth.

She doesn’t look like she’s sleeping much better than me. Maybe the bed is bad, too?

She’s still walking… it can’t be worse than the couch. And to say you could be sleeping there…

The little insidious voice in my mind taunts me and I really want to listen to it, but I know this is a very, very bad idea.

“Good Morning,” I say to her and even to my ears I sound grumpier than usual.

I plaster a bright smile on my face and try to stretch.

Big mistake.

“What’s wrong?” Cassiopé asks.

Something on my face must have shown that stretching wasn’t the easiest thing for me this morning because there is concern on Cassiopé’s face when she asks her question .

“It’s nothing,” I tell her, trying to minimize the problem. “I think one of the springs just decided my ass was its punching bag.”

Here. Close enough.

Cassiopé still narrows her eyes and leaves the eggs and bacon next to the cooking plate before walking to the couch.

She sits on the armrest on my right, her legs on the inside.

She’s only wearing sleeping shorts and a loose shirt.

I hate those shorts.

I love them.

I hate that I love them.

Because they’re barely there. The smooth expanse of Cassiopé’s legs is right under my nose, and all I want is to tear those shorts to threads and wrap those legs around my head.

And yep, I’m hard again. Talk about a one track mind.