“Sure you did.” His gaze is locked on mine now. “But on the plus side, at least now I know you’re wearing my favorite pair.”
My blush gets about a thousand times worse as it registers what he’s referring to, that I’m wearing the black lace underwear that he’d dangled from his shoe in the laundry room what feels like a year ago. “Are you seriously looking at my panties right now?”
“I’m looking at you,” he answers. “That my doing so means I can also see your panties seems like that’s more on you than me.”
“I can’t believe this.” Annoyance skitters through my embarrassment. “You ignore me for days, and now that I finally have your attention, this is what you want to talk about?”
“First of all, I believe it is you who has been ignoring me, wouldn’t you say? Secondly, I’m sorry, did you have a different topic in mind? Oh, wait! Let me guess.” He pretends to examine his nails. “How’s dear old Jaxon doing today?”
With anyone else, I would be apologizing for avoiding them. I’d be making a joke about the panties mishap and explaining that I’m not mad at them; I’m just mad. But Hudson makes it so hard sometimes, especially when it feels like he’s deliberately pushing my buttons. “Maybe you should ask him. I mean, if you can get over feeling sorry for yourself.”
He stills. “Is that what you think I’m doing? Feeling sorry for myself?” Insult—and injury—drip from his words.
But that’s fine with me, because I’m feeling pretty damn insulted myself. “Oh, I don’t know. Should we talk about your choice in reading material?” I glare at the book he left open on the table when he came over to help me.
For a second—just a moment—his blue eyes turn molten. Then, as quickly as it came, the heat fades away. In its place is his old too-weary-for-words, you’re-a-trial-to-my-very-existence expression, and I think I’m going to scream.
Yes, I know it’s his defense mechanism, know he uses it to keep anyone from getting too close. But I thought, after what happened the day of the challenge, that we were past all this.
“I was just doing a little bit of light reading.”
“With a book about a guy in prison? One who’s been sentenced to death for his crimes? What, was Dostoevsky a little too over-the-top for you?”
“A little too cheerful, actually.”
I snort-laugh, because how can I not? It’s the most Hudson response ever to what may be the most depressing book ever written. And my anger drains away, my shoulders sagging.
He doesn’t laugh with me, though. In fact, he doesn’t even smile. But there’s a gleam in his eyes that wasn’t there before when he glances over my shoulder at the table I’ve been sitting at for the last two hours. “What have you been working on so furiously over there?”
“My makeup physics project.” I pull a face. “I need to get at least a B on it, and a B on the final, if I want to have a chance of passing the class.”
“I’ll let you get back to it, then,” Hudson says with a dismissive nod that hurts more than I want to admit, even to myself.
“You really can’t even talk to me for ten minutes?” I ask, and I hate the plaintive note in my voice, but I can’t seem to do anything about it. Not today, not here, and most definitely not with him.
For long seconds, Hudson doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even breathe. But eventually he sighs and tells me, “Honestly, Grace. What is there to talk about? You’ve obviously been avoiding me for a reason.” His voice is low, and for the first time, I see the weariness on his face…as well as the hurt.
But he’s not the only one who’s tired, and he’s definitely not the only one who is hurting. Maybe that’s why my own sarcasm is on full display when I answer, “Oh, I don’t know. What about that we’re—”
“What?” he interrupts, even as he stalks toward me with a sudden, predatory intent that has every hair on my body standing straight up in alarm. “What exactly are we, Grace?”
“Friends,” I whisper.
“Is that what you’re calling it these days?” He sneers. “Friends?”
“And—” I try to give him the answer he’s looking for, but my mouth is as dry and frozen as the Alaskan tundra.
“You can’t even say it, can you?”
I lick my lips, swallow. Then force out the word he’s clearly been waiting for. The word that’s been hanging in the air between us from the moment I walked into the library, even though he never so much as acknowledged my existence. “Mates,” I whisper. “We’re mates.”
“Yeah, we are,” he answers. “And isn’t that just a clusterfuck of epic proportions?”
10
A New Bond
Experience
I wince.
“I don’t know what it is,” I answer him as honestly as I’m able.
His eyes narrow, and for the second time tonight, I’m reminded that he’s not just the guy who lived in my head for a few weeks, then saved my life. He’s also a dangerous predator. Not that I’m scared of him, but…the danger is definitely there.
Especially when he growls, “Don’t play with me, Grace. We both know you’re in love with my brother.”
It’s true. I do love Jaxon. But I don’t say that. I don’t know why I don’t say it—probably for the same reason I don’t tell him that Jaxon broke up with me last week. Because he’ll find out soon enough, and I don’t want to look pathetic when he does.
Normally, I don’t care what people think of me. But he isn’t people. He’s Hudson, and everything inside me rebels at the idea of him feeling sorry for me. Whatever relationship we have is based on a mutual toughness and respect. I can’t stand, even for a second, the idea of him thinking I need his pity.
I don’t know why it matters so much with him, and to be honest, I really don’t have it in me to delve into my psyche to find out. This week’s been rough enough without any deep psychological revelations about myself, thank you very much.
So instead of dealing with the Jaxon statement on the table—and all the baggage that comes with it—I nod toward the towering pile of books he’s got stacked in his work area. “So what have you been doing these last few days, besides reading every ‘light’ and uplifting book you can get your hands on?” It’s a blatant change of subject but one I’m praying he’ll go along with.
At least until he smirks at me and answers, “Mating bonds.”