Sleeping with a man who could snap your neck like a dry twig is, as it turns out, remarkably bad for her sleep.
Cherion sat on the edge of the mattress, staring at the silk duvet as if it might sprout teeth. He'd agreed to this. He had actually, with his own functional mouth, agreed to the arrangement. Why? He still wasn't entirely sure. Maybe it was the sheer exhaustion of the blood-splattered night, or perhaps it was the way Zarius's eyes seemed to pin him to the wall, leaving him with the distinct impression that a "no" would only result in a more creative, likely more claustrophobic, form of detention.
He'd initially suggested the couch. But Zarius had shut that down with a flatrefusal that left zero room for negotiation.
And the more he refused, the more ridiculous Zarius got. Cherion had learned that much already.
So, here he was. Cherion grabbed one of the massive, overstuffed pillows and slammed it down squarely in the center of the bed.
