Page 89 of Alchemy of Souls

And now it’s me who’s struggling because I have no idea what’s going on.

“You were honest with me about your uncle,” she explains. “And I’m not uncomfortable. With this much on the line, I think we should do everything we can to keep up appearances.”

I clear my throat, glancing at the couch and trying to get my bearings. “Yeah, uh, in that case you can take the bed.”

“Besides,” she says with a laugh. “This room is so big my whole family could fit. My little sister and I share a double in a room that’s barely big enough to fit a dresser. When I was little and Grandad and Dad were still alive, my sister and I shared a cot in the living room.”

“If my family slept in the same room, I don’t think we’d all survive the night,” I manage. I mean it as a joke but she doesn’t laugh.

I move to my closet and grab a pair of gray sweats and a black T-shirt. “There are pajamas in the hall closet if you want them,” I offer.

“I do want pj’s, but the idea of picking them out and altering them with magic sounds like a lot of work right now,” she says. “Would it be okay if I borrowed something of yours? Do you have a T-shirt and maybe a pair of shorts?”

I turn back toward my closet. “There’s this,” I say, tossing her a white T-shirt. “There’s no way my shorts will fit you. But I have a pair of new boxers—never worn—if you want those?”

“Sure, that works,” she replies, and I slip into the attached bathroom to change and give her privacy.

But when I step out, I’m not prepared. She’s rolled my boxers at the waist and my T-shirt is oversized on her, hanging off one shoulder. And her legs…

“What?” she says. “Do I look ridiculous or something?”

“Ridiculous? No. I just…,” I trail off, raking my hair back and trying to get a goddamn grip.

“You just what?” she presses.

“I like you in my clothes,” I admit on an exhale. “A lot.”

The longer we stand there staring at each other, the more the tension between us heightens. Which is when her fresh spring scent starts billowing toward me full force. Her lips part ever so slightly and it takes all my willpower not to cross the room and rub my thumb across them. Trace the line of her neck and…

Snap out of it, Grayson.

“I need to crack the window,” I say, struggling.

She raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“Your scent,” I say, and her cheeks immediately flush.

But then she asks, “Is it good or bad?”

My brain misfires. “What?”

“My scent. Is it good or is it bad?” she asks, her voice so low it’s almost a whisper.

My entire body is hyperaware of her, of how many steps it would take to reach her. Of what her velvety skin would feel like under my fingertips. “Your scent is good. Okay? Very good,” I say, hating to admit how helpless I feel right now.

“So, you’re struggling to resist my delicious scent?” she says, half curious and half challenging.

And I move. I don’t even make the conscious choice, but suddenly I’m standing only one inch from her body, my breath coming quick and heavy.

“Claws,” I say in a drawn-out way. “I’m trying really, really hard not to screw this up.”

“Screw what up?” she asks, staring up at me.

“This,” I say, her proximity stealing the last of my reason. “All of it.”

“I might be dead in a week, Gray,” she says, the nickname taking me out. Not to mention her scent isn’t fear, it’s desire.

“I will never let that happen,” I say, meaning every word, and her breath catches.