Devil's Due [h.s.]

Chapter 33

Chapter 33

In the brief few seconds that passed as I opened my eyes the next morning, still not entirely aware of my surroundings or fully able to get a handle on my thoughts, I was granted a moment of peace. Silence.

And then, like a tidal wave, everything from the night before came crashing back to the forefront of my mind. The event, the sex, the ring, the fight, Harry getting drunk... It was all there. Dizzyingly and confusingly so, lingering in my head as a heavy, relentless set of memories that I just couldn't shake.

Even more bewildering was the position in which I'd woken up.

I'd almost forgotten that I had laid down a barrier of pillows last night, almost forgotten completely that I'd even slept in Harry's room until I opened my eyes with my face nearly pressed up against them. My arms were crossed over my chest, held tightly against my body in the exact position in which I'd fallen asleep, preventing me from accidentally rolling over or potentially touching Harry.

It seemed, however, that he hadn't exactly taken the same approach. Harry's slow, rhythmic breathing carried softly around the room, just loud enough that I could guess he was as close to our makeshift barricade as I was. His arm, which was now draped over the top of the wall of pillows, had made its way over onto my side.

I almost went into cardiac arrest when I glanced down and saw that somehow his hand had ended up slipping underneath my shirt and now rested on top of my bare waist.

I've never seen Harry sleep, was somehow the only thought that I could come up with, despite everything else.

Nothing about how uncomfortable I currently was shoved up against the wall of pillows, nothing about last night, nothing about how I should probably figure out a way to shimmy out of bed without him noticing. Just that I'd never witnessed him actually resting.

I wished I could see him. I wished I could see his face to determine if that crease between his brows existed even while he slept; if that seemingly permanent downward curve of his lips remained while he dreamt; if his normally scary and domineering façade had morphed into one of innocence and peacefulness or rather stayed the same.

But I couldn't. And I respected that.

Harry's hand was warm where it rested just above my hip. His calloused fingers and palm were a steadying anchor, holding me in place from the impending downward spiral that threatened to emerge should I dwell too long on the feeling that he brought forth with only this single touch.

Because this wasn't normal for him. The tenderness that currently lingered in the pads of his fingers, the gentle way his thumb brushed against my skin with every rise and fall of my chest. I wasn't exactly sure how to deal with it. I wasn't used to seeing his hands, seeing any part of him really, so... docile. Dormant.

As if in answer to my internal panic, Harry began to stir seconds later. His breathing hitched a fraction and the wall of pillows that were still nearly pressed up against my face moved, letting me know he'd begun to wake up.

I glanced back down at his hand still resting on my hip, a rising panic suddenly catching in my throat.

Oh, god.

The last thing I wanted was for him to think I'd grabbed his hand in the middle of the night and brought it over here. He'd kill me. Probably sell me off to one of his drug friends. That was crazy though, right? Why would he think that?

But he'd been so weirdly vulnerable yesterday, and despite knowing it had been from the alcohol running rampant in his system, I wanted to avoid embarrassing him however possible.