Chapter 4

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Get out of my house, budgie.

Briar

Rowan's bedroom is smaller than mine, darker, less friendly. A large bed sits between two windows covered with blackout curtains. When he led me in, he didn't bother with the overhead light, so only a dim lamp on the nightstand sends a glow across the furniture.

It's very…mafia.

Black wood. Black bedding. Black tile and walls. Only the barest pure white outlines provide a chilling contrast in the décor. Impersonal. As though a ghost—or the Grim Reaper—lives here.

Smiling, I sit on his bed.

"Do you want to lose a finger—or a toe?"

My back straightens as the low voice threatens me from the corner.

Rowan crosses to the on-suite bathroom. "Ignore that."

"Bugsy, Bugsy, Bugsy." A chirp.

My lips form a small "o," and I trot toward the corner I'm supposed to ignore. As my eyes adjust more to the shadows, the massive pyramid of a bird cage comes into view. I clap my hands to my mouth. "Are we soulmates?"

"What?" Rowan grumbles.

"You have a bird."

The bird curses. Perhaps in Rowan's stead.

I cross my arms. "I cannot believe what you've taught your child. Cupcake would never."

Rowan spreads toothpaste on his toothbrush and rolls his eyes. "I didn't teach him that."

When a blood-curdling garble of curses and screams ripples from the tiny black body of the bird, it's all crystal clear. I glance at the little creature and hum. "Ah. I see."

"Yeah."

Setting a hand to my cheek, I fawn. "We both bring our babies to learn the family business." Wiggling my finger in the cage, I murmur, "Who's a good torture buddy? Yes, you are. Yes, you are."

The last bits of Rowan's soul flutter to the ground as he drags his toothbrush across his teeth, one slow stroke at a time, while staring at me, and judging. I don't blame him for being done. It's nearly two in the morning, and I wouldn't take no for an answer when I said I was spending the night after I drove him back.

He spits in the sink. "Why aren't you tired?"

I return to my seat on his bed. "I don't drink coffee."

His narrowed eyes pierce me a moment before he washes the foam off his lips. Then he starts to shave.

I've never seen a man shave before.

It's a tiny bit hypnotic. Each careful motion. His focus on his reflection. The way his neck stretches as blades glide down his chin… I imagine there's a lot you can tell about a man from how he shaves. After all, it's an excellent example of the careful precision and care one is capable of. If they wouldn't afford the same gentleness to someone else, that's incredibly telling. Similarly, if they are unable to even be gentle with themselves, perhaps they've earned some sympathy.

When Rowan is done, he wipes his face with a cloth, and the sharp, fresh scent of his aftershave drifts into my lungs. He mumbles, "Aren't you worried about staying in a stranger's room overnight?"

"No."

"On account of your general lack of self-preservation or…"

I click my tongue and shake my head. "Ooh. Burn. It's sweet that you think you're threatening as a man, pet."

His eyes follow me for a long moment, then—against all odds and attacks on masculinity—he seems pleased. Imagine that. He's pleased by the notion I don't find him threatening in the sorts of ways most women find men to be. He jerks his chin toward the bathroom. "Brush your teeth. There are extra toothbrushes in the top drawer."

Sliding off his bed, I pass him. "You mean I can't just borrow yours?"

Sheer dread mutates the clean-shaven lines of his face. "W…why would you want to? Who does that?"

Hopefully no one. But it is ever so fun to make someone think they're insane. "You're remarkably endearing." I get a toothbrush, squeeze a pearl of his toothpaste onto it. "About as threatening as a chinchilla."

He huffs. "If you think you're being insulting, you should choose a less cool animal."

"Are any animals uncool?"

"No."

The sound of him opening the birdcage accompanies me brushing my teeth, and I peek past the doorway to find the lamp light catching the form of the tiny bird on his finger, his lips pressed to its little head.

Soft murmurs and chirping trills. The low sound of him whispering inaudible words.

My heart squeezes.

How. Cute.

When I'm done brushing my teeth, I begin going through his dresser drawers, on the hunt for a t-shirt. "So," I say as I close his underwear and sock drawer, "what kind of bird is that?"

"Do you have to go through my things?"

"You don't expect me to sleep in this, do you?" I present my skintight romper, but suspiciously he cuts his gaze off me as he sits on the sofa positioned on the other side of the room.

Yeah. I didn't think so.

I find his t-shirts in the next drawer, pull out a plain black one, and repeat my question. "What kind of bird is it?"

"Budgie."

"And its name is…"

He mutters, "Bugsy."

I press my lips together to keep from laughing. "Really? He looks more like an Oreo to me."

"Do you have an obsession with giving pets food names?"

"More of a sadistic compulsion, actually." I head into the bathroom again to change, then step out in his oversize t-shirt. He won't look at me. Not even when I clear my throat.

What a gentleman.

I say, "You know, when I mentioned spending the night, I meant in a room of my own."

"I would hope so."

Crossing the dark flooring, I dip myself into his field of vision. "There's no need to be shy. You can tell me you want me here."

"I don't trust you enough to not keep an eye on you."

"Your eyes are closed, pet."

"The neck of the t-shirt you stole is large, princess."

I glance down at the gaping chasm. That it is.

Laughing, I sit beside him, smoothing the hem halfway down my thighs. "Your manners put upstanding citizens to shame."

"Do they?" He lowers his hand when he opens his eyes, and Bugsy decides his finger is no longer a suitable location to sit. The little bird's wings beat, carrying it back to a perch in its cage.

"They do," I confirm.

He monitors me out of the corner of his eye, exhaustion pouring off him in waves. Every one of his shallow breaths seems like it could carry him to slumber in the very next moment. Maybe…maybe I've teased him enough for one night.

My lips part. "Thank you."

His brow arches. "For having a modicum of basic human decency?"

My smile broadens, and I shake my head. Leaning toward him, I touch a kiss to his cheek. "For helping me. I know I'm a lot to handle. It's on purpose." I yawn. "You can tell a lot about a person if you can get them angry."

"You haven't seen me angry."

"Really?" Lying down, I cuddle one of the couch pillows. "Pity. I'll try again tomorrow, I guess. Good night, pet."

With a sigh, Rowan stands. In the next moment, I'm weightless, one strong arm beneath my knees, the other braced behind my back. He carries me to his bed and sets me down on the comforter in a puddle of bedding that smells like him.

Undeniably masculine.

His fingers comb through my hair, pulling the strands off my cheek and tucking them behind my ear. "It's already tomorrow," he informs, looking exhausted, perturbed, distressed…and yet somehow powerfully gentle.

Treating me with all the caution he has when he shaves.

Smiling, I curl up. "In the morning, then."

He grabs a throw blanket off the footboard and trails back to the couch. "It is, also, already morning."

Stretching, I roll myself under the blankets and hug one of his pillows to my chest. "I'll try again in a few hours?"

"Make it eight to ten."

"Very well. I will try again in eight to ten hours."

"Briar?"

My ears perk, and I smile. "Yes?"

He presses a couch pillow to his face, his bare feet sticking up over the armrest. The scrap of the throw blanket he grabbed barely covers his midsection. "Turn out the light."

Pretending I didn't want a good night, I switch off the lamp and plunge us into darkness.