The Moon's Fangs | 1

21 | calm before the storm

Amelia

After we fell, a cascade of dreams took over and Sio never showed back up for a second round. The oblivion which walks side by side with sleep controlled the narrative for the rest of the night. It allowed me a few hours of peace I hadn't been able to get the past couple of nights. I soaked in every second until my body slowly stirred back awake.

The position of the room and the angle I had initially fallen asleep somewhat... shifted.

As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I didn't see the lowered footboard of the bed under my feet, nor the sheets in a tangled mess after a night of deep, somewhat restless slumber. No. I could see the bed, but I no longer laid in the bed.

Where my hand should have moved across soft sheets towards a pillow, it instead slid up something smooth, radiating heat. My fingers idly trailed up a taut curve, finding sharp edges before entwining into... hair. That's when I felt it. Something steady rose and fell underneath my weight. Warm breath brushed past my hair, tickling the side of my neck.

My stomach dipped, and liquid heat rushed through every inch of my being as I registered what I laid on top of.

Not what. Who.

The armchair had lengthened into a bed-like chaise, as if to snuggly accommodate the two bodies nestled in it like a stack of two pancakes. My backside was devastatingly flush with his front.

Sweatpant-adorned legs were outstretched and tangled with my bare legs. One leg laid on the outer side of my right leg, lazily bent over my knee, foot curled around my calf while his other leg pressed up and between the middle of my legs, holding down my left in a languid curve.

The shirt I borrowed from his closet had scrunched up past my upper thighs from how his legs influenced mine, barely hiding my intimates from view. One of his hands laid on my thigh, emitting warmth like a summer's sun. Two of his fingers rested under the shirt's hem, dangerously close to my inner thigh.

My own fingers were lazily wrapped around his tricep, and, —gods— from his wrist, a tendril from his Guide had looped itself around my opposite forearm several times, reaching the crook of my elbow where its little head found reprieve.

My hyperawareness grew with each suspended second. I could feel the subtle curve of fingers across the curve of my neck. One of his fingers may have been raveled with my necklace. The delicate chain shifted with his slow adjustment.

My heart thrummed wildly against my chest, but I dared not move. On the outside, I was frozen still, like Medusa herself petrified me on the spot. Inside, butterflies exploded into fireworks, setting fire to every swooning blood cell rushing through my veins.

After a long, shell-shocked moment passed, I braved a look up at his face.

The Fates must truly favor him. Reks Arlen was nothing short of a masterpiece. A man whose features could rival the likes of Gods. The devilishly handsome ones, at least.

His head was tilted back and slumped against the cushion. Dark lashes fanned across his cheekbones, casting tiny shadows in their wake against the subtle light emitting from the Guides. My hand was still loosely entwined in his hair at the nape of his neck, wrapped with his singular braid. Everything from his parted lips to the sharp edges of his jawline lured my eyes like a moth to the flame. Every part of him in this unguarded state was a sight for sore eyes, one I never wanted to forget.

Nox dozed in projection form across not my shoulders, but Reks' shoulders. My eyes narrowed on the traitorous snake, body twisted halfway belly up around the back of his neck. Even its little forked tongue lobbed out to the side.