Page 271 of Immune

My body is loose in places I forgot could unclench. My hair is down. My bite mark aches in a way that makes my thighs remember things they don’t need to be discussing with the rest of the class. My cheek rests on Ewan’s bare chest, listening to his steady heartbeat under my ear, and his fingers are moving through my hair lazily like he’s decided I really am something soft under all the sharp barbs and dirty looks.

Idiot.

Brave idiot.

His headphones are lying somewhere on the bed, still playing music low enough that I feel more than hear it.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

A little fake heartbeat in a world that keeps trying to stop mine.

Ewan’s knot eased a while ago, but neither of us moved much after. I should have. I know I should have. Staying still for too long makes me nervous. Warm rooms make me suspicious. And affection always feels like I’m waiting for a net to scoop me up off the ground after triggering a poorly hidden booby trap.

But Ewan smells like smoke and clove, and the bond glows.

Not a collar.

Not a cage.

More like a very irritating little lamp.

“You’re thinking too hard,” he murmurs sleepily, fingers sifting through my strands in a lulling motion that makes my eyelashes flutter.

I lift my head enough to glare at him. “You’re breathing too loud.”

“That is generally required,” he says.

“Show-off.”

His mouth curves. “There she is.”

I hate how easy it is now. How he says things and my body just answers before I’ve decided to allow it.

Ewan brushes his thumb over the bite mark on my neck, careful enough that the ache turns into a warm and welcoming ache rather than a sharp stab. The bond flickers and my breath catches.

His does too.

“Oh,” he says softly, as if he feels the same spark on his end.

I narrow my eyes. “Well, don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like we accidentally discovered electricity.”

“Tiny Terror, I don’t mean to alarm you,” he starts. “But I think we accidentally became electricity.”

I groan and bury my face into his chest, rubbing my nose into his warm skin. “I regret everything.”

With the confidence only a bond can bring, the bastard mutters, “Nah, you don’t.”

He’s right, of course. I don’t regret a thing. And that’s annoying.

My body is tired, but not in the hollow way it usually gets after fear. This tired has some weight to it. Heat. Skin. The kind of tired that shouts I was here. I wanted. I laughed. And I didn’t fucking die from it.