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Slow enough that warmth spreads through me before I can pretend it doesn’t.

“Morning,” I whisper.

His mouth pulls into a sleepy half smile.

Then his presence brushes against mine.

Warm, low, and familiar.

My siren answers immediately, and something in his expression changes when he feels it. His arm tightens around me again, bringing me closer until my forehead settles against his chest.

Well… apparently, that answers the should I leave question.

I smile against his skin. “You know, for someone who can’t talk, you’re surprisingly bossy.”

His chest moves beneath my cheek with a silent laugh.

I feel that too.

And maybe that’s the part that gets me.

I’ve known this man for barely two days. I know he’s a hellhound. I know someone took his voice. I know he communicates mostly through his phone, his hands, and a middle finger he uses often enough that I’m starting to suspect it’s his preferred language.

But this?

This quiet version of him, half awake with his hair a fucking disaster and his arm wrapped around me like letting go hasn’t even occurred to him?

This… I haven’t seen before.

His hand slides slowly up my back and settles between my shoulder blades, and my eyes close as that familiar calm settles over us again.

I should probably get up.

Breakfast will start soon.

Someone will eventually come looking for one of us, and I’m not remotely prepared for whatever happens when this clubhouse realizes where I spent the night.

Still, when Carnage tucks me closer, I make absolutely no effort to move.

Apparently, neither does he.

Underneath all of it is this… a man who lost his voice and somehow still manages to tell me what he wants every time he looks at me. And right now, with those amber eyes holding mine, I know exactly what he’s asking. The only way out is to run, and for the first time in a long fucking time, I don’t want to.

My throat tightens around words I don’t trust myself to say.

Carnage lifts his free hand and brushes the silver hair away from my face, his fingers sliding behind my ear before trailing slowly along my jaw. The rough drag of his calluses sends a shiver down my neck, and when his palm settles against my cheek, he stays there, his eyes moving over my face before coming back to mine.

My heart gives one hard thump.

Then another.

His thumb brushes my cheek again.

Yeah, that’s not fucking helping.

Say something, I want to tell him. Make this easier. Make a joke. Give me a reason to laugh, roll off this bed, and pretend last night didn’t crack something open I don’t know how to close again.

He just watches me, his thumb tracing one slow line along my cheekbone, and I am not prepared for how gentle the touch is. I’m still trying to find air that doesn’t shake on the way in when three hard knocks slam into the door, rattling it in the frame.