Page 24 of Zomromcom

Later that night, Max shook out the first item from his bundle of borrowed clothing. Together, he and Edie contemplated a pair of gold lamé pants and the generous amount of fabric ballooning forth in the garment’s thigh region.

Savagely, she bit her lip.

“They gave me MC Hammer pants.” His voice was flat. “Like in my video.”

The light from her phone—which Doug had insisted she charge using the generator’s power—reflected against the shiny surface of the pants and illuminated the far wall. She pointed her face in that direction, quelling the irresistible urge to laugh.

Max sighed. “No wonder Austin looked entirely too pleased with himself.”

Getting herself under control, she turned back.

“You should be proud, Max. You’re an influencer, right?

And you clearly influenced someone in that gang.

” The fabric was slinky and cool under her outstretched fingertip.

“It’s very soft. Also very dry, unlike your jeans, and far less precarious than the tablecloth toga you’ve been wearing all afternoon. ”

Several counterfeiters had been watching that toga, their hungry gazes willing its folds to part and its knots to unravel. Alas, the tablecloth had proven sturdier than expected. She and Max remained the only people in that mall who’d seen him entirely naked.

To clarify, alas for the counterfeiters. Not her. She was quite pleased to have the viewing of his birthday suit remain a party of two.

“I suppose.” He dug through the rest of the clothing pile, then paused. “Shit.”

“Show me. Come on, Max. Share with the class.”

When he held up a leather tunic with a Mandarin collar and nipple and navel cutouts, she choked on thin air and began coughing and laughing at the same time. He glared at her as he thumped her back.

“I—I’m guessing that’s from your videos too,” she wheezed.

He offered her zero expression. “Possibly.”

“What—” She caught her breath. “What else did they give you?”

To his credit, he didn’t try to dodge the question. “Velour boxers and a clip-on rattail.”

When a strangled sound emerged from her straining lungs and she began cough-laughing again, he deposited their borrowed towel in her hand.

“Let’s take our showers, human.” Only the faintest indentation at the corner of his mouth revealed his own reluctant amusement. “Perhaps you’ll be less gleeful at the misfortune of others once you’re clean.”

“Probably not.” She wouldn’t lie to him. “But you’re sweet to think so.”

According to Belinda, the former employees at the nearby sporting goods store had been urged to bike to work, so one bathroom in the back came equipped with a shower, not merely a sink and a toilet. Her gang used that shower, and they’d given Edie and Max access for the night too.

Together, the two of them walked over, nodding at a sleepy-looking Austin as they passed the Sharper Image.

When they reached their destination, their steps echoed across the vast emptiness of the dark sporting goods store, and Edie hastened to the staff area in the rear, where the counterfeiters had rigged up some lighting.

In contrast to the huge selling floor, the employee break room would accommodate a half dozen people, max, and the white-tiled bathroom with the shower was slightly claustrophobic.

Its surfaces sparkled with surprising cleanliness, however—probably due to the cleaning rotation on the wall, upon which Austin had posted a sticky note reading “THIS MEANS YOU TOO, CODY”—and thank goodness for that.

Edie had no desire to contract a fungal infection even as she scrubbed away all traces of moat water.

Max was quiet, merely waving her ahead of him into the bathroom, and Edie was too damn tired to quibble.

One at a time, they washed up under the steaming-hot water with the toiletries they’d been given, dried off, got dressed, and prepared for bed—all while the other stood guard outside the bathroom.

Because they might have reached an agreement with the counterfeiters, but they weren’t fools.

As predicted, Edie still giggled on occasion the entire way back to Pottery Barn. That occasion being whenever she glanced at Max’s fresh clothing.

The pants were a glorious, shiny paean to eighties fashion, of course, but the tunic—the tunic !

It was fricking amazing . All gleaming leather and peekaboo skin, like high-necked, boobless chaps.

If she didn’t think Max would find a way to murder her with the sheer force of his fiery glare, she’d totally boop him on a pebbled rosy nipple. Or tickle his shadowy navel.

Her continued hilarity stemmed from genuine amusement, but also sheer punch-drunk exhaustion. By the time they returned to the counterfeiters’ infamous napping couch, she was staggering with fatigue against Max’s supportive arm.

As soon as they entered the back room, he closed the door behind them and did something to the handle. She didn’t know what. Didn’t care.

“Bedtime.” Striding ahead of her to the couch, he smoothed a tablecloth over the bottom cushions, then straightened the other makeshift blankets and gestured for her to crawl beneath the pile. “Did you set your alarm for tomorrow?”

When she nodded, he climbed in after her and maneuvered them back into a spooning position, since it was the only way they’d both fit on the sofa.

After he carefully tucked the tablecloths underneath her, the warm, soft fabric and his cool embrace encompassed her in a secure cocoon.

His arm curved beneath her neck, his chest braced her aching back, and his chin rested atop her head.

A slight, pleasant tug against her scalp told her he was fiddling with her damp hair.

Maybe de-knotting all the tangles, since she hadn’t wasted any energy combing it. Again, she didn’t care. It felt good.

Sagging into the couch, more relaxed than she’d been in hours, she rubbed her cheek against his biceps. “What did you think of our dinner?”

“Decent sushi.” Each of his deep, slow breaths rocked her slightly, and it was soothing as heck. “And I’m glad you didn’t have to dig into your emergency supplies. Whatever horrors your can of non-falafel might encompass, I cannot imagine. Nor do I wish to.”

With a sleepy snort, she wiggled back farther into the cradle of his body, only to feel his hard dick digging into her ass cheek. Still, he didn’t meet her inadvertent caress with his own, didn’t press forward and grind against her. Didn’t make the embrace sexual.

“Max?” she whispered.

“You need to sleep.” He might be aroused, but apparently he was content not to act upon that arousal. “It’s fine.”

Yeah. She liked him. More than she should, given how clearly he’d warned her that vampires didn’t care much for anyone, even other vampires.

His hand stilled in her hair, and when he spoke again, his words were uncharacteristically hesitant. “Speaking of horrors and sleep.”

She’d been wondering all evening whether Max would push for answers.

Over the years, whenever she’d scratched a sexual itch, she’d done so outside the Zone, and she’d never spent the night.

No one had ever been present for one of her increasingly infrequent nightmares, so no one had asked about them. Until now.

The two of them had been interrupted earlier, at the moment when most lovers would have naturally posed questions—out of morbid curiosity, if for no other reason. She’d hoped he might forget what had happened. Might let it go, even if he did remember.

“Max.” This time his name wasn’t a question. It was a protest. “I don’t…”

I don’t talk about this. Ever. I don’t want to talk about this, and I especially don’t want to talk about your unexpected appearance in a dream that hadn’t altered in two decades .

“Please,” he said, the word halting and rusty, an abandoned cogwheel kicked into motion after centuries of neglect. “Tell me.”

Most people mistook her friendliness for openness. Never even realized she didn’t share what she was thinking or feeling. And if they didn’t care enough to notice, she certainly wasn’t going to expose the raw expanse of her heart to them.

But his tone conveyed far more than idle nosiness, despite all those warnings about his callous nature. And when she didn’t answer immediately, he waited patiently, his fingers sifting through her hair, until she surrendered.

“My parents died in the First Breach, when I was eighteen. In our home. My home.” The moisture behind her closed lids soothed her stinging eyes, and she tried very hard not to let the familiar, terrible images play out against those lids.

“They sent me to safety and held off the creatures long enough for me to escape. I didn’t see the end, but I saw enough. I heard enough.”

Her mouth clamped shut.

There. Done.

If he didn’t intend to make her one of his rare exceptions and openly care about her in a more lasting way, that was all he’d get. Facts and basic context. The bare outlines of a picture he could fill in at his leisure with her thoughts and emotions, because she wasn’t going to do it for him.

He hummed an acknowledgment and kept stroking her hair. Slowly, as she realized he wasn’t going to press for more, her thoughts began to unravel into slumber.

Then he spoke again. Right against her ear, so quietly it felt like vibration more than sound. “The fae are powerful beyond description and nearly impossible to kill, but they’re mortal.”

Well, that was random. But it was also a truth for a truth, shared in the silent darkness of a crumbling edifice.

She sucked in a breath. “Really? I thought they were immortal.”

“Their natural longevity is close to yours.” His body had turned taut behind hers, his forearm like iron beneath her fingers. “The only way for them to increase it is to feed on the lifespan of humans.”

Holy fuck.