Page 70 of Held-

“Sleep, princess,” he says softly. “I’ve got you.”

Those words follow me down into darkness.

I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep when I wake with a start, disoriented by the unfamiliar softness beneath me. This isn’t the truck.

I’m in Brayden’s bed.

As I blink into the dim light filtering through unfamiliar curtains. My mouth tastes like something died in it, and my head still pounds, but the violent nausea seems to have passed.

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” Brayden's voice rumbles from somewhere nearby.

I turn my head carefully, wincing as the movement sends a fresh wave of pain through my temples. He's sitting in a chair by the bed, shirtless, a mug of something steaming in his hands. His hair is damp from a shower, and he's watching me with an amused expression that makes me want to crawl under the covers and die.

“How long was I out?”

“About four hours.” He sets his mug down and leans forward, elbows on his knees. “How's the head?”

“Still attached, unfortunately.” I push myself up to sitting position and realize I'm wearing one of his t-shirts instead of my clothes from last night. “Did you change me?”

“You insisted on it when I carried you in from the truck.”

I groan, covering my face with my hands. “I don't remember that part.”

“Not surprised. You were pretty far gone.” He reaches for something on the nightstand. “Water and painkillers,” he explains, holding out two white pills and a glass of water. “Best I can offer until we can get some real food in you.”

I take them gratefully, swallowing them down with several large gulps of water. I hadn't realized how desperately thirsty I was until the cool liquid hits my parched throat.

“Thank you,” I manage, my voice still rough from sleep and too many tequila shots. “I'm sorry for being such a mess.”

Brayden shakes his head, that half-smile playing at his lips. “You don't need to apologize. Everyone's entitled to let loose sometimes. You hungry? I can make you something.”

My stomach lurches at the mere mention of food. “God no,” I mumble, pressing a hand against my queasy middle. “The thought of eating anything right now might actually kill me.”

He nods, understanding without judgment. Then, instead of heading to the kitchen, he moves toward the bed, lifting the covers.

“Scoot over,” he says softly.

I shift to make room, and he slides in beside me, the mattress dipping under his weight. With gentle hands, he guides me onto his chest, one arm wrapping securely around me. His skin is warm against my cheek, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear.

“Better?” he asks.

“Much,” I whisper, relaxing against him. His chest hair tickles my cheek.

Brayden reaches for the remote on the nightstand and clicks on the flat screen mounted to the wall opposite the bed. The TV flickers to life, and he starts scrolling through channels, then suddenly stops.

“Christmas Vacation. Haven't seen this in years.”

“You like Christmas movies?”

“Don’t be so shocked.”

“I didn't expect you to be the kind of guy who enjoys watching Chevy Chase fall off a ladder,” I say, trying to adjust my position without jostling my throbbing head.

“There are a lot of things about me you don't know yet, princess.” His fingers trace lazy patterns on my arm. “Besides, everyone likes watching Chevy Chase fall off a ladder. It's practically an American tradition.”

I snuggle closer, breathing in his scent. The combination is oddly comforting.

“I used to watch this with my mom every Christmas,” I admit quietly. “She'd make hot chocolate with these tiny peppermint marshmallows she could only find at this one store in Carlsbad.We'd wait until Dad was at a church meeting and make a whole night of it.”