Page 69 of The Fake Divination Offense
He wiggles up until we’re face-to-face, and morning breath be damned; my focus zeroes in on that look in his eyes, and before I realize what I’ve done, my hand’s up under his shirt, palm flat on the warm, slick skin of his lower back.
I freeze.
He does, too, his fingers arched into my short hair, a hundred questions and hesitations and desires roiling through his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I assure him and carefully peel my hand out from under his shirt, being sure not to touch anything else.
He grabs my wrist.
Those eyes catch fire, darkening with intent as he plants my hand flat on his ass.
“No. I want you to touch me,” he says, and need twists beneath my belly button, pulled by the same need glowing in his eyes. He’s shaking even through that determination, and I rock forward until my forehead rests on his.
“It’s okay, Belle,” I whisper. “We don’t have to.”
“I want to,” he moans. “I want to tell you. Please. I—”
There’s a knock at the main door.
No—ahammeringat the door. Thunderous fists beat on the wood and I fly up, one arm automatically going over Alexo’s body, pushing him back behind me.
“The fuck?” The knock goes again, and before it wakes the whole damn floor, I leap out of bed.
Alexo’s sitting up, knees curled to his chest, wide eyes fixed on the open door to the suite’s living room. Another booming knock and he flurries out from under the blankets, scrambling toward the bathroom.
But not before I see the fear on his face. The same fear he showed last night, when news of the Galaxrien attack hit.
I dig through my suitcase, pull on another Hellhounds shirt, chew a few breath mints—they’ll have to do—and march out into the main room.
Whoever it is now punctuates their knocks with a harsh “Open up, Mr. Monroe!”
I look through the peephole.
No way.
A glance behind tells me Alexo’s still in the bathroom. Good.
I square my shoulders and open the suite’s main door.
To face Tem Raussec.
Whofollowed Alexo to New York.
He’s followed Alexo on other away games, so I shouldn’t be surprised. But tell that to my rage.
Behind him, on either side of the door, are two people I didn’t see in the peephole. They’re dressed in matching light leather armor with spell component belts around their hips. Members of an adventure party?
I glower at Tem. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
He ignores me, trying to force his way into the room, but he’s a human and I’m a half-giant defensive tank on a pro rawball team; he ain’t getting in.
He rebounds off my chest with an affronted snarl.
“Alexo!” he calls, eyes on me. “Alexo!”
I flip my glare at the nearest person behind him, a half-elven woman about my mom’s age with umber skin and black hair in a braid. “What’s this about?”
She puts a hand on Tem’s shoulder, tugging him back. “May we come in?”
