crushed in cold leaves made of metal.
Sometime later, the silence hit me, and I realized we’d stopped. Adrian pulled his gloves off and put his hands over mine, presumably to warm them up. We sat like that for a while until I could move my fingers, then Adrian stood, removing his helmet. Still numb, I shoved my helmet off, too, and let it drop to the ground.
“Sorry,” I mumbled.
He didn’t say anything, just lifted me off the bike like I was a child. He carried me up some stairs, through a door, and into a warm, dark room where he set me down. I immediately curled into a ball and shivered while he closed the balcony door, then rustled through some drawers.
“Caitlin,” he murmured a moment later, placing a hand on my arm. “When you can move, put these on.” He tucked something next to my hands and then said, “I’m going to go downstairs to make some hot chocolate. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
His hand left my arm, and a moment later I heard the door close.
I sat up. With the moonlight coming through the French doors, my eyes finally adjusted and I found a pair of drawstring sweatpants, some thick wool socks, and one of his deliciously soft sweaters. I buried my face in them and breathed deeply. They smelled like Adrian. It was a very good smell. I wobbled to the door and felt around for a lock, then switched it. I reached for the zipper on my dress, then paused, a thought finding its way to the surface of my sluggish brain:
I would be mostly naked, however briefly, in Adrian de la Mara’s room.
I would be without clothing. In Adrian’s room.
Naked.
I think I snorted.
Searching for any sort of sounds from the house and finding none, I shimmied out of the dress and threw it on the bed, tried three times to unhook my bra (because let’s face it, sleeping in a bra is pretty much the worst thing in the world), succeeded, threw it somewhere across the room with far more velocity than I’d intended, then reached for the sweater and pulled it over my head. I finally got around to the pants and fell trying to get them on. Then I had to sit still for a minute because my head was spinning. I was just pulling the socks on when there was a quiet knock. I made sure the tie on the sweatpants was tight so they wouldn’t fall off and then opened the door. He looked to make sure I was dressed, then slipped inside, carrying two mugs.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, handing me a mug.
“Warmer,” I admitted, tucking my feet underneath me on the bed. “What time is it?”
“A little after two.” He sat in his desk chair.
“Hmm,” I mumbled, then took a sip of hot chocolate. “This is yummy.”
He smiled. “Secret family recipe.”
“Did you try the punch?”
“No.”
I looked at him, surprised. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged. “I wasn’t thirsty.”
“I was,” I told him, as if he didn’t know. “I just wanted punch, not happy punch, but all they had was happy punch. And then the grail. And then more punch.” I looked at him. “I was really thirsty.” I took a sip of hot chocolate. “This is yummy.”
“Thank you.”
“Adrian.”
“Yes?”
“Why are you nice to me?”
He smiled at me kind of funny. “Figured it was better than being mean.”
I absorbed this, took a sip of hot chocolate, then stated again, “Adrian.”
He smiled again. “Yes?”
“I won’t tell anyone your secret.”
He was merely a shadow sitting back in his chair. The smile slipped off his face and he didn’t respond for a long time.
“What secret?” he asked finally.
“That you’re…” I waved my hand around. “ Y’know .”
He raised a brow. “Pretend that I don’t.”
I scrubbed my hand across my face, already regretting blurting this out. “That you don’t like girls. I won’t tell anyone.”
The blank look on his face seemed, for a moment, to be frozen in place. Then, very carefully, he leaned forward. “You won’t tell anyone that I
Sometime later, the silence hit me, and I realized we’d stopped. Adrian pulled his gloves off and put his hands over mine, presumably to warm them up. We sat like that for a while until I could move my fingers, then Adrian stood, removing his helmet. Still numb, I shoved my helmet off, too, and let it drop to the ground.
“Sorry,” I mumbled.
He didn’t say anything, just lifted me off the bike like I was a child. He carried me up some stairs, through a door, and into a warm, dark room where he set me down. I immediately curled into a ball and shivered while he closed the balcony door, then rustled through some drawers.
“Caitlin,” he murmured a moment later, placing a hand on my arm. “When you can move, put these on.” He tucked something next to my hands and then said, “I’m going to go downstairs to make some hot chocolate. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
His hand left my arm, and a moment later I heard the door close.
I sat up. With the moonlight coming through the French doors, my eyes finally adjusted and I found a pair of drawstring sweatpants, some thick wool socks, and one of his deliciously soft sweaters. I buried my face in them and breathed deeply. They smelled like Adrian. It was a very good smell. I wobbled to the door and felt around for a lock, then switched it. I reached for the zipper on my dress, then paused, a thought finding its way to the surface of my sluggish brain:
I would be mostly naked, however briefly, in Adrian de la Mara’s room.
I would be without clothing. In Adrian’s room.
Naked.
I think I snorted.
Searching for any sort of sounds from the house and finding none, I shimmied out of the dress and threw it on the bed, tried three times to unhook my bra (because let’s face it, sleeping in a bra is pretty much the worst thing in the world), succeeded, threw it somewhere across the room with far more velocity than I’d intended, then reached for the sweater and pulled it over my head. I finally got around to the pants and fell trying to get them on. Then I had to sit still for a minute because my head was spinning. I was just pulling the socks on when there was a quiet knock. I made sure the tie on the sweatpants was tight so they wouldn’t fall off and then opened the door. He looked to make sure I was dressed, then slipped inside, carrying two mugs.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, handing me a mug.
“Warmer,” I admitted, tucking my feet underneath me on the bed. “What time is it?”
“A little after two.” He sat in his desk chair.
“Hmm,” I mumbled, then took a sip of hot chocolate. “This is yummy.”
He smiled. “Secret family recipe.”
“Did you try the punch?”
“No.”
I looked at him, surprised. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged. “I wasn’t thirsty.”
“I was,” I told him, as if he didn’t know. “I just wanted punch, not happy punch, but all they had was happy punch. And then the grail. And then more punch.” I looked at him. “I was really thirsty.” I took a sip of hot chocolate. “This is yummy.”
“Thank you.”
“Adrian.”
“Yes?”
“Why are you nice to me?”
He smiled at me kind of funny. “Figured it was better than being mean.”
I absorbed this, took a sip of hot chocolate, then stated again, “Adrian.”
He smiled again. “Yes?”
“I won’t tell anyone your secret.”
He was merely a shadow sitting back in his chair. The smile slipped off his face and he didn’t respond for a long time.
“What secret?” he asked finally.
“That you’re…” I waved my hand around. “ Y’know .”
He raised a brow. “Pretend that I don’t.”
I scrubbed my hand across my face, already regretting blurting this out. “That you don’t like girls. I won’t tell anyone.”
The blank look on his face seemed, for a moment, to be frozen in place. Then, very carefully, he leaned forward. “You won’t tell anyone that I
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