When I Was Theirs

63. Jared

63

Jared

I wake up to a sleeping Emmy curled up against my chest.

I knew I should have slept on the damn couch.

Her breathing is still a little harsh, a little forced. Her lips press against my chest, little huffs of air heating my skin under my t-shirt. She’s wrapped around me like a ribbon on a Christmas gift, her leg slung over my hips.

And her hand is under my shirt, pressed against my heart.

It starts to pump harder as I stare down at her bruised face. My head thumps back into the pillow as I stare at the ceiling.

You are completely and utterly fucked.

I don’t move. Hell, I try not to breathe.

She’s a perfect fit. The lump in my throat grows.

I could wake up like this every morning. The feeling only grows as she starts to stir.

Emmy Marsters is not a morning person. At least, not this morning. I get to hear her grumble against my chest for at least ten minutes about the light coming through the closed curtains. She burrows her head into me before she flinches. “Ow.”

“Easy.” She blinks up at me, all blue eyes and wild curls and those fucking marks he put on her skin.

My whole body tenses.

Em flushes. She pulls herself up, almost rolling off the far-too-fucking-small bed. “I’m so sorry.”

“Careful.” I grab her before she topples, and we both pause. “How’d you sleep?”

She sinks her teeth into her lower lip before she responds meekly. “Fine? You were very comfortable.”

She’s going to kill me. Groaning, I pull away and climb out of bed. “Breakfast.”