CAGED (#3, of Crows and Thorns)

Chapter 24

The bathroom door opened and a burst of warmth and steam curled out as Graysen entered our rooms rubbing his wet hair with a towel. I'd learned over the past few days that Graysen liked long showers, really long showers, spending time luxuriating under the rainfall of water. The man spent more time in the bathroom than I did. Which had suited me perfectly this morning.

Despite the shower, he looked terrible. Worn out and exhausted. His face was more than shadowed with stubble—he was on the cusp of growing a beard.

"Good morning, dickface," I cheerfully greeted him.

"Wychthorn," he replied in a low gruff voice as he stalked past, not even looking my way.

His skin glowed with the after-effects of the shower and its golden hue contrasted against the plain white t-shirt and dark denim jeans that hugged his muscular body.

He neatly folded the white towel over the back of a dining chair, arched his spine, and raked his hands through his damp hair, finger-combing the locks. Barefoot, he turned and padded over to the kitchenette, found a tall glass, filled it with water, and headed straight for his work desk. After he placed the glass down on the desk, my gaze sharpened on how he adjusted its position several times so that the glass sat dead-center on the square wooden coaster.

He flopped down on the rollaway chair and when he glanced at the laptop I'd superglued last night, he gave a long, weary sigh through his nose. Pulling a drawer open, he took out a pen and notepad and hunched over his desk, his back to me.

I mindlessly walked around the room. Bright morning sunshine poured into the room, heating my bare skin, and I savored the delicious taste of the croissant filled with strawberry jam. I'd taken to eating them every breakfast, freshly baked by the kitchen servants and delivered by Penn, piping hot. Their flaky pastry was perfect for the cruelty I was inflicting on Graysen. I drifted around the room, bored, and purposely dropping flakes onto the floor—leaving behind a trail of pastry crumbs.

This morning I'd woken up and found outside my bedroom door a box filled with a variety of toys for my wraith-wolf—ropes to tug on, rubbery sticks, and tennis balls to play fetch with. I refused to think about how kind an offer it was for Sage. Instead, I used the gift to my advantage. I was half-heartedly playing fetch with Sage while I ate. I kicked a tennis ball and the enormous wraith-wolf bounded about, crashing into furniture to get the toy like an excited puppy.

I could see Graysen bristling as Sage knocked into the coffee table and shunted it forward as he whined and pawed at the ball beneath it.

Graysen, like me, was growing more and more agitated with the situation of sharing a space with one another. Psychological warfare was the only thing left for me. I'd been given plastic forks and knives to eat with—like a godsdamned prisoner—after I'd attacked him with my keenly-sharpened spoons a few days ago.

He was also, curiously, a neat freak and a little compulsive with symmetry. I'd been testing my theory for the past few days. In the past year, when we'd been forced to spend those days together, I hadn't really paid much attention, and now I was trying to unearth my memories of him. I had scratchy impressions of him aligning cutlery and crystal tumblers. But stuck here with him, it was obvious just how fastidious he was in his personal domain.