Page 66 of The Fake Divination Offense
“Because you want to pull away from Urzoth yourself.”
My shoulders rise slightly, a twitch wobbling my hand on his face.
His lips pulse in a sad smile. “You don’t exactly hide it. And if you—”
“Hey,” I cut him off, trying to be gentle. “No deflecting. Not now.”
A heavy sigh, and he steps away from me, scrubbing his hands on his arms, walking in an agitated circle in front of the couch.
He faces me again, fighting hard for resolve, but exhaustion sweeps over him, making his eyelashes flutter. “It’s jarring. The Galaxrien threat feels closer than it did before, that’s all. It’s upsetting, right? Anyone would be upset.”
Yeah. They would.
Like the Urzoth church, who has now been directly affronted by the extremists.
How will they respond to that?
I scratch the back of my neck and purposefully do not look at my abandoned phone, do not think of all the messages likely pouring in from my mom, from the Hellhounds, from Reverend Drach.
“Can I stay?” Alexo whispers. “Tonight. Just to sleep.”
There’s so much more we should talk about. I should demand answers, real answers, about whatever he’s running from. I should givehimmy own answers about Urzoth, and how I want to, need to, renounce him.
But Alexo sways, chest expanding on a deep inhale, and I cross the room to wrap my arms around him. He sinks against me with a contented groan that floods my body in warmth.
It’s on my tongue to tell him no—I’ve only ever slept in the same bed as Seb.
But why the hell did I bring Alexo up here then? I want him to stay. I want to fall asleep with him in my arms.
“Yes,” I say. I trail my thumb back and forth where his body chain cups the nape of his neck. “But, um—here’s something else real about me.”
He pushes away to look up at me, driven by the anxiety strumming my words like guitar strings.
“I have nightmares,” I tell him. “I might wake up defensive or panicked. It doesn’t always happen, but you should be aware. If you still want to stay.”
He pushes up onto his toes to kiss me tenderly.
“I still want to stay,” he says, and I sigh down into him.
I guide him to the bedroom and dig a T-shirt out of my suitcase for him, a white one with the demon dog logo and my number on it. Any of the pants I have would be absurd on him, but the shirt should be big enough to serve as a sleep gown. He takes the hotel-provided toothbrush since I brought my own toiletries, and I leave him in the bathroom.
By the time I’ve changed into plaid sleep pants and propped myself up on the bed, the bathroom door opens.
Alexo comes out absolutelyswimmingin my shirt, the collarplunging off one shoulder, the hem down around his calves. My number, 64, is huge across the chest.
My hand clenches in the sheet and I know I growl, feel it bubble up my throat, but fuck if I care.
He’s in my clothes, wearing my number. Probably still smells like me from earlier, too.
He shifts nervously next to the bed, scratching the back of his ankle with his toes.
Are his toes—
Yep. They’re painted pink.
Fucking kill me. Now. End this torture.
“Just sleeping,” he says again, half a question.
