Page 29 of Shadowed Bond

She opens her mouth, then closes it again, and a blush dusts her cheeks. It shouldn’t be as amusing as it is, but the sight of Charlotte, always so polished and composed, suddenly clutching the duvet as if my bare chest was a tad too much, does something stupid to my mood.

“Why did you take it off?” she asks.

“Was hot,” I reply as I stretch and roll my neck.

“That is hardly appropriate,” she says with indignation.

“You’ve seen plenty of shirtless men, Arden. I was in my own bed, not yours.”

“Our beds are practically touching.”

“Still a separate bed.”

Her eyes narrow, but they betray her again, flicking down to my chest before she forces them back to my face. I see it, and the annoying part is I feel it, too – the shift in the air, the small pull of awareness that has no place here.

“You’re too fucking loud,” I say, redirecting the conversation.

Her brows knit together. “Excuse me?”

“You screamed loud enough to wake the dead pack down the road,” I remark, adjusting my pants.

“I woke up to you half-naked, barely two feet away from me.”

I reach for my shirt from the floor, straightening just in time to catch her eyes darting away. “A bit too late to pretend you weren’t staring, Arden.”

“I was not staring,” she lies.

“Sure,” I drawl with a smirk.

She glares at me, her arms darting out, and she grabs the pillow beside her and throws it without warning. I catch it before it hits my face, and for a moment we simply stare at one another across the narrow gap between the beds. Her cheeks are still flushed, her hair is still loose, and without all that careful styling, without the perfect exterior she wears like armour, she looks somehow younger and softer.

Dangerous thought.

I toss the pillow back and pull my shirt over my head.

“There. Crisis over.”

She catches the pillow against her chest, lips pressed together like she’s trying not to say something she will regret. I almost want her to say it.

Almost.

I turn away and head to the bathroom. “Get ready, we’re grabbing breakfast and heading out.”

“Obviously, Westwood,” she replies dryly.

I cock a brow and then slam the door shut. “Annoying woman,” I mutter.

“I heard that.”

“Good, you were meant to,” I reply. “So block me out unless you want to hear me piss, too.”

“You are such an arse.”

I simply smirk. Anything to annoy you, woman.

By the time we head downstairs, Charlotte looks like Charlotte again.

Hair tied back neatly, a few strands framing her face, she’s wearing clean, fitted jeans and a black polo top with her Schattenblüte belt on. Posture perfect and face composed. If I hadn’t seen her twenty minutes ago with flushed cheeks and hair tumbling down her back and in her face, I wouldn’t have put the two together as the same person.