Finding Obsidian

37 - The Devil Herself

The first thing I noticed when I woke up was my position.

More specifically, my position with Rian. In his bed.

My eyelashes fluttered as I came to, slowly taking in my surroundings. It didn't take long for me to realize that the toned lump of whatever that was currently acting as my heat source wasn't just a conveniently-placed radiator. 

My arms were tucked against it, and my face was nestled into the crook of its—his—neck. Our legs were tangled together. His arm was around my waist. I could feel the muscled outline of his entire body against my skin.

And his eyes were open. 

I yelped and jolted away, already feeling heat rush to my cheeks. Rian's resulting chuckle resounded through the bedsprings, and I could feel it rattle my bones. His obsidian gaze followed my movements, somehow illuminated by the natural light streaming into the room.

"Morning," he greeted, an eyebrow raised.

I regarded him carefully. Last night was a bit foggy, but I could remember most of it. I'd had a nightmare, and Rian had comforted me. We'd gone to sleep in his bed, which was already pretty disconcerting.

It was only the events that came after that I couldn't recall. Nightmares always left my memory a little iffy the morning after. When exactly had I drifted off?

"Morning," I returned, looking anywhere but at him. "Uh . . . what happened?"

Both eyebrows went up now. "You don't remember?" he asked amusedly.

"Not exactly," I admitted, frowning. "I remember up until we came in here. I must have been really tired, because the rest of the night is kinda fuzzy."

"Hm," Rian hummed thoughtfully. A demonic grin broke out over his face. "How unfortunate."

My frown deepened. "Why unfortunate?" I questioned warily.

"No reason," he responded, but the devilish smile he still wore betrayed his true feelings. My eyes widened in panic as he got up out bed, heading for the door.

"Wait, Rian," I called at his retreating back. "Rian, why unfortunate?"

He ignored me, instead whistling to himself as he entered the living room. I groaned worriedly. I'd thought that we just went to sleep, but judging by how he was acting . . . there was no way, was there? He had to be playing me.

I scrambled out of the bed and hurried out the door, pausing when I saw him rooting around in one of his cupboards. He turned when he heard my footsteps, smirking when he saw me.

"Bedhead looks good on you," he drawled, pointing to my unruly hair.

I glared and tried to pat it down, but my efforts were in vain. He chuckled—he was doing that a lot more lately, and I was starting to like it—and tossed me something, a plastic package. I caught it confusedly.

A toothbrush?

"Bedhead is one thing," he explained. "Morning breath is another."

I rolled my eyes and nodded. "I'm surprised you even had a spare toothbrush on hand."

He shrugged, walking over to his washroom. "It's good to have one around. For . . . overnight guests."

I tensed, raising my eyebrows at him. I felt a twinge of fire in my gut, but it had nothing to do with any nightmare. "Oh? And do these guests come around often?"

He smirked again. "I'm looking at one," he answered smugly. "Though judging from last night, the others have nothing on you."

My face went red and my mouth popped open. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"