Page 24 of Dreadful

The fan turns overhead, carving slow shadows through the dark. Cruz's thumb stops tracing circles. Stops, then starts again, slower. A silent concession. Her fingers slacken in their hold on my wrist.

Eventually, Cruz's breathing deepens and evens out. Bellamy's goes with it, matching his rhythm until I can't tell whose exhale is whose.

The bed creaks when Bell shifts her weight, too many bodies in a bed built for fewer, and I don't care.

I force my eyes closed and try to match their breaths.

For now, this is enough.

NINE

BELLAMY

I'm about to start sweating.

That's the first thought that filters through the thick haze of sleep.

For a few seconds I just exist in it—that dense, heavy warmth—before I start becoming aware of my body and where it is. The room comes back in pieces. The gray morning light pressing through the curtains. The weight behind me, and the weight in front of me, and the slow understanding that I'm sandwiched between two furnaces who apparently run several degrees hotter than the rest of the human population.

At some point the comforters got shoved to the floor. I don't remember doing it, but I'm grateful. My borrowed clothes are askew: the t-shirt pushed high around my ribs, the boxer briefs twisted and revealing almost my entire ass.

Gage is curved around my back, a solid wall of heat, his arm hooked loosely over my waist. His palm rests against the curve of my breast—when did that happen?—his touch heavy with sleep but not demanding. I can feel the steady thump of his heartbeat against my spine, the slow, deep rhythm of his breathing warming the back of my neck.

In front of me, Cruz is a tangle of lean muscle and sharp angles. My cheek is pressed against the solid curve of his bicep, my leg thrown over his hip. His hand rests on my thigh, fingers splayed possessively over bare skin where my borrowed boxers have ridden up.

The bedroom door creaks open. Coco walks in carrying a wicker laundry basket, humming softly like it’s any other morning.

All at once, the warm, drowsy contentment evaporates. My heart kicks hard against my ribs, hammering so loud it nearly drowns out the soft rustle of her steps.

I twist slightly, just enough to see over my shoulder. She’s already smiling—a small, easy thing that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Morning, honey,” she says, her voice smooth and unbothered.

I do my best deer-in-headlights impersonation, frozen in a tangle of half-naked limbs. She moves past the foot of the bed without so much as a sideways glance and disappears into Cruz’s walk-in closet. When she emerges a few moments later, the basket is heaped with towels and rumpled clothes.

She pauses beside the door on her way out. “My boys like to sleep,” she murmurs, tilting her head as she stares at me, “but that doesn’t mean you have to hide in here. I made breakfast.” Then she’s gone, pulling the door shut with a soft click.

It takes a full ten seconds before I realize she was speaking only to me. I stare up at the ceiling, at the faint crack running through the plaster, and wonder what the fuck just happened.

Confusion coats my skin, thick and slow like syrup. Coco didn’t even pause. She moved through the room unfazed. Did she know we were asleep? What if someone had been changing clothes? What if we’d been tangled up, breathless, caught in something far less innocent?

A cold dread seeps through me like spilled ink. I’m in bed with two of her sons. One of her hands rests on my thigh, the other is curved around my ribs. What does she see when she looks at me now? Some girl taking up space between them like she belongs there?

I exhale slowly, the sound too loud. The question echoes, relentless: Why didn’t she knock?

“Shh, Bell, I can hear you thinking. Let’s go back to sleep.” Gage’s voice is thick with sleep, his hand flexing against my side before smoothing up my ribs. His palm is warm and heavy, his thumb brushing the underside of my breast before his fingers curl, rolling my nipple slowly between them. A low groan rumbles through his chest—a sound of pure, drowsy satisfaction—and then he’s moving, turning into me before I can react.

“I’m already awake,” I murmur.

“Good morning, then.” One arm hooks around my waist, dragging me beneath him as he buries his face against my neck. His lips find my skin, soft and seeking, planting two sleepy kisses just below my ear.

“Kiss me, Bell.” The words are rough with sleep, edged with something like need.

I exhale a quiet laugh with a slow shake of my head. “Morning breath.”

He nuzzles along the slope of my neck, his breath warm against my ear. I shake my head slightly, glancing left toward Cruz. His eyes are closed, but I don’t buy it.

“You could’ve died last night,” Gage murmurs into my skin, shifting until he’s settled more fully between my legs. “You think I give a fuck about morning breath?”