Harry Styles, a secret service agent working for British intelligence is tasked with finding the killer after a series of brutal but calculated murders across Europe. His mind is sharp, he's smart, arrogant and works with a precision that leaves no...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
January 1st
Winter
Everything hurt.
My head was pounding, the kind of headache that immediately let me know how excessively I'd drank last night.
Groaning, I squinted my eyes, unsure of what time it was. It was pitch black in the room, the curtains drawn, but even if they were open, the sun wouldn't even begin to rise until about 9am. So it wasn't any later. The taste of last night's party lingered in my mouth, a bitter reminder of too many glasses of red wine and a few of champagne.
I wanted to throw up.
My body shifted, stiff and still half asleep. I wanted to find the hotel room phone and check what time it was, it could be early morning or the middle of the night, I had no idea. But I also had no fucking idea what time I went to sleep last night. A wave of nausea grew in the pit of my stomach when I went to move, so quickly I gave up on even trying to find the phone, I just wanted to go back to sleep.
I tried to remember the events of last night, all my mind could come up with were small fragments of laughter dancing, fireworks. Another wave of disorientation and nausea settled over me. I tried to sit up, to go to the bathroom, to splash some cold water over my face to try and cool myself down. The hangover sweats had really gotten to me.
Blindly, I reached forward to the switch I briefly saw on the bedside table and I flicked it. A dim, mellow light illuminated a small corner of the room, it really wasn't bright, it barely stung my eyes.
That was when my breath caught in my throat.
My mind hadn't really processed until now that I had no idea where the fuck I was. This wasn't my room, it wasn't Harry's spare room and it wasn't his bedroom either. We were in the hotel. I had no memories of leaving the party and climbing into bed or how I even got here.
It was clear there had been some sort of pillow barrier built down the centre of the bed, something that I knew I would have insisted on no matter how drunk I was.
Except, there was apparently no fucking point in the barrier.
Because instead of being on one side of it, I was laying on top of the pillows in the middle of the bed. Harry's body was right behind mine, near pressed against me, and when I thought about it more, I felt the dip in the mattress at my back, and the warmth of his body radiating through me.
I shifted around, rolling over to face him.
Tangled in the sheets in front of me, Harry was sound asleep. He was on his back, one hand resting on his stomach, rising and falling with each relaxed breath he took. His opposite hand was outstretched to the side, towards me, and I'd been resting my cheek on his bicep all night.
