Little Saint Bride [Death and the Maiden, #1]

Chapter Twelve: FYI Pillows Don't Talk

Art is by Rebecca Guay. Her work is amazing, and features a lot of mythology with passionate lovers...I love this one of Hades and Persephone!

The next morning-- apparently it was technically morning, but it's always dull here-- I awake with a dark laugh emitting in my left ear. 

Gods, do I leap.

I am out of my large canopy bed and onto plush carpet, whilst spinning in midair to view my assailant, all within seconds. Landing with a short huff as my butt hits the floor on all the bony bits, I glare up at the smirk of my husband-in-name-only.

He's so smug it's unreal.

Like a preening cat, he's curled up in my duvet, shirtless and wearing only underwear, so that I get the best view of his bulky frame. He also makes my bed look damn small as he proceeds to spread like a starfish.

I stare at him, the previous evening's miscreant activities flooding back into my mind. The ball. The reveal. The kiss. The Hadrian. 

The if-you-sleep-with-me-you-stay-with-me possessive pact. Hadrian the jealous lover.

The fact that he'd dismissed me like a servant once we had established our agreement, and after cursing him in as many languages as I knew, I had stormed off to sleep. Fitful sleep filled with dreams of belly-lurching kisses, and sneaking into a certain someone's bed.

I will never speak of such dreams again.

'I think I prefer this bed to my own,' he says with an air on nonchalance, 'Mind if I move in?'

He's teasing me again, and not even bothering to hide it. What is he even doing in my bedroom, and how did he get in here?

And, worse...why am I so drawn towards his thighs, draped artistically across my white virgin sheets?

He looks like he cycles everyday, I think. Is it hot in here? Or is it just my hormones flaring?

Back when I was working on the streets, I had heard talk of different attractive features of men. Typically, I overheard far too much information about some man's bottom, chest hair, abs, jawline, shoulders-- once, I heard a girl gushing over her boyfriend's forehead. Apparently, it was nice to rub against, whatever that meant. I had hummed a tune to block out the conversation, feeling scarred at even knowing bits of a sex life I couldn't comprehend.

Oh, I'd been tempted, yes. Far too many men and women had tried to crack my resolve, and other times I'd been caught alone and had to fend for myself. Before I could fight had been dark, dangerous days, most of which I survived because of Nate. 

But because of such a history, I'd never allowed myself to really look at a man's body before. And then, one just pops in front of me, like a beautiful painting wanting to be examined. 

And, now I know. I'm a thigh-girl. 

'My love...this is all moving so--- fast!' I grunt, heaving a nearby pillow towards him. I can feel my cheeks are flushed from my internal monologue, and the thought of getting any closer to Hadrian's body.

 He bats the pillow away with ease, smirking all the more. 'You tried that last night, wifey. You can't get me with the same trick twice.'

He rolls onto his front, propped up on my pillows that haven't been directed at his head. He adds the latest throw to the collection, giving me a satisfied smirk.

'Lucky for you,' I hiss. My damn cheeks wouldn't cool down, and the way he'd rolled...was that gluteal muscle...? 'What do you want? I need to get dressed.'