Page 21 of Bad Bunny
Not in the room.
Inside me.
Slow. Heavy. Unsteady.
It fades after a second, but the aftereffect of it lingers in my mind.
The rabbit lurches toward me a second later, clumsy, unsteady, trundling across the blankets until he bumps against my thigh.
My breath catches.
Not from fear.
From the way that same tight thread inside my chest pulls when he moves closer.
I scoot backward until I’m leaning against the headboard and gather him into my lap, careful not to touch his wound. With one hand holding the bunny, I use the other to draw the comforter up over us. I tuck the creature beneath my chin and wrap my arms around him like I can contain the violence of his trembling. The ragged way he breathes.
His fur is soft beneath my fingers as I stroke him, whispering encouragement and soft shushing noises. He burrows deeper into me, bumping my neck with his warm, wet nose.
It’s easier in this form to touch him. To offer physical comfort. Calm reassurance.
I don’t know when I doze off, only that the fevered heat of him has faded. That his breathing has slowed, and he’s also asleep. I’m not sure how I know that except that somewhere deep in my chest the frantic pulling has finally eased.
Sometime, deep in the night, a velvet nose meets my wrist. The quick sting of sharp teeth followed by a rush of pleasure, almost sensual, makes me moan lightly. I shift and roll over until I’m nestled against something warm and firm. Arms come around me. They hold me gently, like I’m precious. I must be dreaming.There’s no other explanation for the feeling of lips pressed to my hair, for the soft rumble of a deep voice whispering to me.
He tells me I’m okay. That I did good. That he’ll keep me safe.
He says to go back to sleep.
So I do.
I dream of a brown-eyed rabbit in a far-off castle. Not Sorren.
It lifts its head, nose twitching, like it just caught the scent of something important.
Something it’s been hunting.
Chapter four
You Smell Different When You're Nervous
Sorren
I wake with her in my arms. Beautiful Nora. I have about half a second to appreciate how her brown hair spills across the pillow, how a shaft of sunlight caresses her bare shoulder, how her head fits perfectly on my chest, before she also wakes.
I slam my eyes closed and pretend to sleep.
It’s hard not to be a little hurt when she goes stiff against me. She gives a sharp gasp that I can only interpret as dismay, then shimmies carefully out of my embrace and across the bed, practically log rolling herself off the edge and onto the floor.
Floorboards creak as she hurries out of the room.
I wait, counting my breaths until I run out of patience. Then I rise and go find her.
She’s in the kitchen. Barefoot. Hair tangled from sleep. Wearing one of those loose human garments that exposes the line of her shoulder.
Completely unaware that my entire world just rearranged itself around her.
It takes me a full minute to compose myself before stepping into the room.
