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The ruined book lies crumpled against the baseboards. Beside the empty water glass on the small table sits the heavy, unopened envelope the ancient vampire shoved into my hand before the portal dragged us home, the wax seal catching the morning sun.

Thirty-One

Vivienne

My entire body feels like warm honey and bad decisions.

I lie flat on my stomach, cheek smashed into a feather pillow, listening to the heavy, steady drag of Lachlan’s breathing beside me. One of his thighs—thick as a tree trunk, hairy, and radiating furnace heat—is thrown over both of my legs, effectively pinning me to the mattress. His arm is slung across my waist, his broad palm resting possessively against my hipbone.

Every muscle in my pelvic floor aches in a very specific, deeply satisfying way that informs me I probably won’t be jogging anytime soon. Not that I jog anyway. Cardio is for people with something to run toward, and up until a few weeks ago, my five-year plan was mostly just trying not to get evicted.

I wiggle my toes. The velvet duvet rustles.

Instantly, the heavy arm across my stomach tightens. A rough, gravelly sound rumbles deep inside Lachlan’s chest, somewhere between a snore and a territorial snarl. His scruff scratches against the bare skin of my shoulder as he nuzzles closer, exhaling hot against my neck.

"Stop squirming, lass," he mumbles, voice completely ruined from sleep and shouting over bedposts.

"I'm not squirming," I tell the ceiling. "I'm assessing structural damage."

His chest shakes with a silent, lazy chuckle. His thumb strokes a slow circle over my hip. "Felt fine from where I was standing."

"You weren't standing, Lachlan. You were actively trying to put me through the floorboards."

"Aye." He sounds entirely too proud of himself. "And you weren't complaining."

"That’s because my higher cognitive faculties were temporarily offline." I push against his massive chest with both palms, trying to lever myself upright. "Now roll your heavy ass off me. I have things to do."

"No, ye don't," he grunts, burying his face deeper into the crook of my neck, inhaling me like I'm fresh-baked bread. "The sun's barely up. Stay put."

"Lachlan."

"Quiet, woman."

"Do not 'quiet, woman' me after you just spent an hour treating me like an all-you-can-eat buffet." I shove his shoulder with genuine effort this time. He yields just enough for me to scramble onto my elbows, pulling the velvet sheet up over my bare chest.

Lachlan cracks one eye open.

He looks entirely too good for a man who spent the night wrestling a bear inside his own ribcage. His dark hair is a wild, tangled mess around his broad shoulders, a couple of the small silver clan braids coming loose against his temples. Dark stubble shadows his jaw, accentuating the sharp cut of his cheekbones and the crooked bridge of a nose that’s clearly been broken more than once. His hazel eyes are heavy with sleep, but the pupils are still slightly blown, dark and dilated as his gaze rakes down my bare collarbones.

The living Celtic knot around his wrist pulses with a faint, contented gold warmth.

I point a finger straight at his nose. "We need to talk."

Lachlan lets out a long, theatrical groan and throws an arm over his eyes, blocking out the morning sun. "Gods preserve me from talkative women at dawn."

"It is not dawn, it’s almost eight in the morning, and you have some explaining to do, MacTavish."

"About what?" his muffled voice rumbles from beneath his forearm. "I gave you what you asked for. Multiple times, if memory serves."

"Oh, you gave me plenty," I snap, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks in spite of myself. "Especially after you chucked a four-hundred-dollar antique history text against the masonry."

I swing my legs over the edge of the mattress. My feet hit the floorboards, and a sharp spike of soreness shoots straight up my inner thighs. I hiss through my teeth, clutching the sheet around me like a toga.

Kirk chirps from under the vanity, poking his carved snout out from behind a dust ruffle. He trots over on silent wooden paws, rubbing his hard, burnished cheek against my ankle in solidarity.

"Good boy, Kirk," I mutter, bending down to retrieve The Ursine Question from where it lies splayed against the baseboard. The cloth spine has a dent in it, but the pages are miraculously intact.

I march back to the bed, climb onto the mattress on my knees, and drop the open book right onto Lachlan’s bare, heavily muscled stomach with a solid thwack.