Patricia
After I've voiced my suspicion, everyone seems to come to the same conclusion—that I'm right or that the killer is someone living on our grounds under our radar. It would make the culprit a human, which Elijah finds rather doubtful, but we aren't leaving anyone out.
Alice yawns, stretching her arms. "Will you be alright sleeping by yourself?"
I smile at her and nod encouragingly. Elijah and Wesley are borrowing our guestroom downstairs, and while the haunting image of my father will probably prevent me from sleeping, I can't bring myself to tell Alice. She is already super worried about me, and I don't want to keep her up for the rest of the morning.
"Yeah, I'm fine. You head upstairs."
Alice hands me a smile of her own. I suspect she doesn't believe me to be fine, but one glance at the man listening in on our conversation got her stifling a laugh.
"Alright," Alice beams at me. "Sweet dreams, Patricia."
I wave her off, aware of Dior staring into my back with his penetrating gaze. He hasn't uttered a single word, but I have this itching inclination he won't leave my side after today's events.
A sigh escapes me. "You can sleep on the couch."
"I much rather sleep in your room."
My heart skips a beat. I have to force myself not to turn around and eye my mate—I want to, but then Dior would see the red color tinting my cheeks. He also wouldn't fail to notice the need curling inside of me. I'm shaken, and honestly, I would love to keep Dior around. But I can't bring myself to admit it, afraid I would seem weak.
"You're not invited," I say despite wanting the second option—Dior naked on my bedsheets. Gosh, I need to get a grip. "But as I mentioned, you can use the couch."
Dior snorts. "Not a chance. You can't fight me on this one, Patricia. I'm all set, and if you want me on the couch, then you're staying as well."
"I much prefer soft bedsheets over the couch."
His grin is fast. "Me too."
"Oh, but you're not coming."
"Ah, is that so?" Dior is eyeing me with the same annoying smirk covering his lips.
I challenge him by standing still, not caring about him towering over me like a goddamn skyscraper. "Yes."
Amusement washes over his face. "Funny, because I don't see how in the hell you're going to stop me."
"What?!" My eyes widen, and I swear every hair stands on the edge of my body, like a cat ready to attack. "Don't you dare!"
Dior scoops me up into his arms with a big smile. I flail and try to escape from the savage, but it's like the wind fighting a mountain. He moves for the staircase, and with a sigh, I rest my cheek against him.
"I hate you..." I mumble although I don't mean it. Shit. Why am I always like this around Dior—hackles raised and ready for war? I hate myself for it, but for whatever reason, I'm too proud and stubborn to allow my walls to fall around this man.
Dir chuckles, and his warmth wrap around me like a blanket—knowing he didn't get offended by my words brightens my mood. He is… Sweet. And I'm hyperaware of his size, so much bigger than mine. I'm also aware of his pounding heart falling into rhythm with my own.
"If it will make you feel any better, I can always shape-shift into a wolf and sleep next to you like your personal guard dog."
I lean back, finding his waiting blue eyes. Swooning has become my everyday now. "I'm not sharing a dog with a panting wolf the size of a house!"
"So you're saying you prefer me in my human form?" Dior wags his eyebrows as he walks into my room, closing the door behind us while still not letting go of me.
My glare turns harsher, more spiteful. "I don't remember agreeing to sleep with you at all!"
"Stop playing a martyr with me, Patricia. It won't be so horrible sharing a bed with me. Your skin under the blanket is cold, and I'm warm—I don't mind heating you."
Dior is correct as much as I hate to admit it. I'm freezing, and Dior's palms on my thighs feel good. His fingertips are sinking into my skin, and I almost moan right there and then. He has such manly hands too, large and veiny, beautiful like the rest of him.
I hold my nose high as we stand there, right in front of my bed and silently waging wars, testing the waters. Dior is still not putting me down, probably waiting for me to tell him it's okay for him to stay.
"Alright, but you can only sleep in my bed on one condition!"
Dior quirks his eyebrow with a frown forming. "No."
His words shock me. "What?"
"I already know what you're going to say, and I think it's ridiculous."
I snort. "No, you don't!"
With the utmost gentle movement, he slips me down onto the mattress and smirks at me. It's an expression of confidence.
"You were going to suggest I stay in my clothes."
I cross my arms over my chest. "And you should."
Dior holds my gaze, all but daring me not to let go. And I realize that, despite his playfulness, he is nervous too, possibly afraid of my rejection as he stands there, trying to keep it all together.
"You've already seen me naked, and thanks to your happy times shape-shifting, I've seen your curves too."
My voice trembles. "That means nothing."
Dior is unbuttoning his shirt, letting it fall to the floor. "Oh, but it does—it means everything because I love your body, Patricia. In fact, I like everything about you. The way you look at me, and the way you smile around me, even though you won't admit to it."
I stare at him, gasping as he unbuckles his belt. He hesitates only for a moment before he removes his jeans, peeling them from his legs. My eyes only widen, glued to the thick bulge in his boxers.
Dior silently looks down at the erection protruding from the fabric, then flashes his eyes to mine. An uncertain smile touches his lips. And I will be damned, is that an actual blush on his usually arrogant face? Impossible. Did I hit my head this morning, or what?
As if reading my mind, Dior speaks. "I can't help it around you, but I promise to behave—you need to rest up."
"Yes, rest..." I swallow thickly; with my mouth suddenly turning drier than a sandstorm, it's challenging to talk. "So exhausted."
Wow, I can't even talk in complete sentences now.
Dior chuckles and the view only gets better. He reaches up to hook his thumbs into the waistband of his Calvin Klein, and I'm forced to hold my breath, unable to look away. I'm having my private striptease, and the guy in my room looks like he could be any of the naked, hunky models on the latest cover of a sports magazine.
"I'm tired too, although some parts of me seem to have a mind of their own."
His rock-hard cock bobs against his abs as it springs free from its prison. It nudges the bottom of his belly button, thick, veiny, and beautiful and on display for the naked eye.
It doesn't matter that the room is cold—a sudden warmth spread all over my body seeing Dior. The worst part is that I can't look away from him despite knowing I'm full-on gawking.
Dior tilts his head, watching my eyes as they roam over his skin. He is eerily silent, giving me time to soak up him up, and at this point, I don't care about him knowing how hot I find him. I've never seen a body so perfect. The man got cobblestone abs, broad shoulders, biceps that swell with his every movement, but it's his arousal that my gaze keeps traveling back to—I have no self-control.
When I say nothing, Dior groans as if it's physically painful for him to stand there and allow himself to be checked out.
"Stop looking at me like that."
My eyes dart to his anxious face, the black hair falling into his piercingly blue eyes and the knitted-together eyebrows. Instant lightning zaps between us, making me breathe out my next question.
"Like what?"
Dior nears the bed and climbs into it on all fours. I barely even realize him creeping closer, too caught by his serious expression to notice. But suddenly, our noses are barely inches away, and when his voice comes out again, I shudder at how his breath touches me, swipes me away.
"Like you belong to me already. Like it would make you smile and light up in joy if I kissed you right here and now."
The mood shifts. We both can feel it—I can read it on Dior's face. Tension is crackling in the air. It's pretty insane how I've gone from hating this man to wanting him more than oxygen.
I'm not even breathing anymore. I look up at Dior from under my lashes, wondering if there is some truth in his words. My heart is pounding, and I'm throbbing down there. Do I belong to him?
Well, every finger is already itching to touch him, make him mine, but there is a voice inside my head saying, "not yet, make him earn it," and so I clench my hand.
There will be no mating ritual tonight, but perhaps I will let some parts of the almighty Chinese wall fall into a heap on the ground.
My lips part. "No sex tonight."
Dior's lips curl higher, yet he stops to sit down. "Still fighting me?"
What the hell—I'm smiling. "Yes."
"Are you winning?"
Smiling, I shake my head. I'm on the verge of laughing because I have this curling, fluttery sensation traveling through me at the sound of his voice. I so badly want to kiss him. It's a pain lying down in my bed and turning away from him.
"No, I'm not winning this battle."
My honest answer earns me a gasp, and then the mattress is creaking doubtlessly from Dior getting comfortable on his side of the bed. I'm a bit worried about the size of the freaking giant. I think he can't keep exclusively to his side of the bed.
"Wow, are you being honest for once?"
I breathe a laugh. "Maybe."
"So you're beginning to like me?"
There is no mistaking the grin in Dior's voice, and I roll my eyes with a dramatic sigh, but the smile on my face says it all—I like him. Luckily, I've turned away from the idiot, which won't allow him to see me wearing my heart on my sleeve.
"Goodnight, Dior."
For once, my voice doesn't come out spiteful. Yet, I have to put an end to this conversation. My heart is experiencing pitterpatters that I have yet to swallow and acknowledge.
There is a chuckle before the light goes out. "Sweet dreams, Patricia."