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“What was that for?” he cries, rubbing the spot aggressively.

“Do I look like a fucking exorcist to you?” I throw my hands up in the air.

I have no idea how to do an exorcism. Banishment, sure—on poltergeists and sprites—but I’m a spirit witch, not a demonologist. This is not in my job description. Definitely above my pay grade.

“Um…I don’t know. No?” he says sheepishly, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Oh god, and now his eyes are watering, and I don’t think it’s from the crystal assault.

“Okay, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay,” I say softly, more to myself than to him, but it works either way. I offer him my hand, and his fingers thread with mine, tugging me until I settle into his lap.

“I’m not going to die, am I?” he whispers uncertainly into my neck, looping his arms around my waist. I card my fingers into his hair, giving him what little comfort I can offer.

“No, you’re not going to die. I promise,” I whisper back, pressing my cheek against his head.

I stubbornly told Sunday I’d take the couch when he stood at the bottom of the stairs, asking wordless questions with his eyes. But now I’m second-guessing that decision.

I can’t sleep. I don’t know what the opposite of claustrophobia is, but whatever it is, I have it. The space is too big, and as much as I press myself into the back of the couch, I still feel exposed and antsy. I can’t get that word out of my head.

Death-touched.

What does it mean? Was it talking about Sunday? Is it some oracle-esque promise?

Feeling very much like a child woken from a nightmare, I creep up the stairs to Sunday’s bed. Of course he’s smack bang in the middle, but it’s not like I can be annoyed about that. It’s his place, his bed, I’m just the sad little intruder who can’t sleep alone right now.

“Sunday,” I whisper into the dark. I watch the part of his face illuminated by moonlight for any sign he’s awake. Nada.

It feels a little creepy to just crawl into his bed, even though we were making out and dry humping like teenagers mere hours ago. We’d shared a bed before we even dated; personal space wasn’t really a thing between us.

So…is this any different?

He stirs as I sit on the edge of the bed. “Bels?” He reaches for me, tugging at the fabric of my shirt.

“I’m sorry. It’s…I can’t sleep. It’s too open.”

“Mmm. C’mere,” he rumbles sleepily, pulling me into the bed.

I don’t think he’s completely awake, because his beefy arm wraps around my waist and tugs me in, slotting us together. Like two broken pieces of the same puzzle that somehow still fit.

His skin against mine and his weight draping over me soothes me instantly, bringing my churning thoughts to a stop.

I fall asleep with moonlight caressing my face and sunshine burning my back.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Bellamy

Waking up in a bicep prison isn’t the worst thing in the world. Sunday’s body is caging mine completely, arms wrapped around my waist and ribs, every plane of his body melding with mine. My shorts have ridden up, exposing the globes of my ass to the heat of his thighs.

I shift experimentally, sliding one of my legs through the tangle of our limbs. He stirs, breath ghosting against my head. Goose bumps flare down the back of my neck as his arms tighten. It’s so warm and inviting that I don’t want to open my eyes.

The only thing ruining the experience is my incredibly ill-timed gift of clairalience: the ability to smell things that aren’t really there.

I scrunch up my nose against the scent of sweet rot, dirt, and dampness. Absolutely not what I want to be smelling first thing in the morning, so I bury my head deeper into Sunday’s pillow, trying to breathe in the traces of his cologne lingering in the fabric.

His pelvis flexes, pressing his morning arousal into the cleft of my ass, and desire blooms in my belly. I shift again, the hot swell of my cock tenting my little sleep shorts, the tip dangerously close to his hand. His breath catches against the skin between my ear and my neck, and I’m on fire.

“Stop fidgeting.” His gravelly morning voice may as well be a hand between my legs. My cock kicks, the tip grazing the edge of his hand as he loosens his vise-like grip around my waist. His breath levels back out, and he falls back to sleep.

He never was a morning person. Ironic, really.