Page 223 of Scarlet Wars
All I got back was a sudden snore.
My mouth twitched, and my arm tightened around her, drawing her closer, shielding the space around us not out of instinct, but need.
And for a moment, I let myself pretend the world outside didn’t exist at all.
I wokeat 5:30 a.m. to Emma standing in front of a new whiteboard, dressed in nothing but one of my shirts.
Fuck.
That did a wholelotto me.
The fabric swallowed her tiny frame, the hem barely brushing the top of her thighs. Her hair was a wild riot of waves, half pulled up by a pencil that was hanging on by sheer will. Sunlight cut through the windows and caught the pale column of her neck, the slope of her shoulder, soft skin, unguarded.
I dragged myself up on an elbow, eyes glued to her, absolutely gone.
“Morning, Sir,” she said without turning, marker tucked between her teeth as she scribbled something furious and complicated across the board.
Her voice was still a little rough, sleep-soft, and holy hell if it didn’t slam straight into me.
“Mm,” was all I managed at first.
She paused, then glanced over her shoulder, one brow lifted like she knew exactly what state I was in.
“Planning on speaking today, or are you just going to stare at me like a depraved gargoyle until noon?”
I scoffed. “Gargoyle suggests I’m crouched and hideous. I’m neither.”
She turned fully to face me. The shirt rode up slightly when she crossed her arms. My brain short-circuited. “You sure? I hear they’re big on denial.”
I let my head fall back against the pillow with a low laugh. “Fuck you.”
She grinned, triumphant and infuriating.
I scrubbed a hand over my face, but it did absolutely nothing to hide the smile tugging at my mouth. “What are you doing up? You were unconscious six hours ago.”
“I woke up half an hour ago,” she countered, popping the marker cap with her teeth again. “My brain started screaming questions at me and demanded sacrifice.”
I blinked at her. “Sacrifice.”
She pointed the marker toward the board like a battle commander brandishing a sword. “Problem solving.”
I swung my legs over the side of the bed. “And the sacrifice was sleep.”
“And sanity,” she agreed solemnly. “But then again, sanity’s overrated.”
I stood, unhurried, and lazy, and watched her gaze flick over me before she could stop them.
Bingo.
“And the shirt?” I asked, voice low.
Her mouth curved slightly. “Mine smelled like war crimes and whiskey. Yours smelled like you.”
My heartbeat kicked like a traitor.
“And you chose me over war crimes and whiskey,” I murmured, stepping closer.
She didn’t retreat.
