Page 52 of A Sweet Destruction

The second he said it, my stomach bottomed out like tipping over a cliff in a free fall.

Oh, I wanted to chicken out so badly. It would be hard to when—

PLEASE! Yes. Yes, YES!!! He said yes!

My God, the Bond sounded like a squealing teenager who’s mother said yes to their very first sleepover.

Well, the only way through was through. “Alright,” I said, drawing on some of the skills of deception I’d brow beaten into my repertoire. I lifted my chin towards the beds. “Push them together.”

Ford’s brow moved up. Just the slightest bit, catching it before it could roll over into full fledged doubt. But I saw it. And it made me angry.

This fire felt good, much more than the heat of embarrassment. It gave me the strength to stand there, arms crossed, and watch Ford move two bed frames made of brutal iron around the room like they were children’s toys. Watch the arm that bore our Mark flex and bulge with his efforts, watch his back bunch with exertion under his thin white undershirt.

He pulled the covers up, leaving them on their respective sides of the bed—likely the only thing that would save me if I managed to go through with this. I was not asking for a pillow wall and I was not waking up plastered to him.

I didn’t give Ford time to turn around and seek praise for his efforts. If I saw him smirk I didn’t think I could go through with this. Instead, I all but jumped on to the bed, tucking myself under the covers and caging in my hands so I wouldn’t do something stupid.

Ford stared at me with a slack jaw, blinking twice as if he was trying to make sure I was actually there.

His chest moved before his feet did, sending him stumbling a little less than gracefully towards the bed.

My grip tightened on the comforter, gripping it with all my strength to fight against the swooping of my stomach.

The Bond had dissolved into incoherent screams of glee, mystified that it was finally getting what it wanted. At least it was distracted from the questions it had been lobbying at me all day, from what happened to Ford to where it had gone for so long.

My eyes fluttered shut when I felt the bed dip beside me, even though the mattresses weren’t connected. That last little shred of hope I clung on to vanished, knowing that even with separate blankets and separate beds, it would be an unavoidable fact that I was sleeping next to Ford.

One day with the Bond back, and I was already too weak to resist.

Then, I thought about Bellamy telling me that she’d done the same, shared a bed with Soren on the first night, and that they’d ended up tangled together by morning.

Nope, that was it. I couldn’t do this.

“Esme, get back in bed.”

I hadn’t realized I was halfway across the room, moving at light speed out of pure panic, until Ford’s no-nonsense tone stopped me right in my tracks.

“I don’t appreciate your tone,” I said over my shoulder, the last word ending in a garbled mess when I caught glimpse of him looking…

Well, just very domestic. Sat up in a bed big enough for two, waiting for me to join him.

God and the Goddess and every other deity in the universe combined, help me.

“Get back in bed,” he repeated, not at all kinder. “You look exhausted. You need to sleep.”

Oh, I recognized that gruff command in the end. That was entirely the Bond.

That realization, that it was an instinctual entity driving the show, somehow made it a little easier, more familiar. I knew how to deal with the Bond when it was with me, so…so it shouldn’t be so hard to find a balance with the version of it that lived in him.

So long as I focused on that, not the person who housed it.

I will listen to you. Just please don’t make me do anything stupid, I pleaded with the Bond—both forms of it.

I felt a subtle unclenching, a little release of agreement. My legs moved, drawing me back to the bed with little resistance.

Exhaustion hit me like a truck the second I tucked back into the warmth of the covers. Ford had been right about that much.

Ford’s eyes tracked over me, and I could tell he was actively fighting a smirk.