Tangled In His Sheets Novels & Stories

“Now, we make sure they don’t get another chance.” His reflection in the glass looked every bit the man she’d heard whispered about — ruthless, calculating, dangerous — but when he turned back, she saw the human beneath it. The worry he couldn’t quite bury. The guilt that came with it. “You should rest,” he said quietly. “I’ll stay close tonight.” She frowned. “You mean in the room?” His expression flickered — a hint of discomfort, almost ironic. “Outside. In the hall.” “You’ll sleep in the hall?”

As the morning light streamed in through the partially drawn curtains, it gently danced behind his closed eyelids, gradually drawing him from his peaceful and deep slumber. Slowly opening his eyes, he frowned feeling a weight on his chest. Looking down, he found a mop of brown lock sprawled across his chest, her head nestled close to his chest.

The only remaining detail of her left were the sheet marks printed into his arms from where he had wrapped his arms around her, the sheets bundled in his fists and his lips against her skin. He frowned- a puzzled frown- as he climbed to his feet; stuffing his legs in his sweat pants and padding his way across the wooden flooring of his room and into the cold bathroom, where only a bloody towelette and plaster wrappers scattered across the countertop, spoke to their evening, plastic bold and iridescent, flashing in the light like highway signs.

In a panic, he jumped down from the bed and searched for his clothes but he was not able to find any of them. Tiptoeing towards the wardrobe, he mumbled to himself, “Why the hell I am all naked… she… did she succeed to seduce me…? Finally idiot Shishir, a huge congratulation for successfully getting seduced by your rival… now be her slave for eternal…” Furiously opening the door of the wardrobe, he got himself the pajamas. Pulling it above and tucking it on his hip, he grumbled, “Why why… why?” He then walked to the bed and threw the pillow away. He pulled up the duvet and collecting it in his arms threw it away. And when he was about to tear off the sheets, he saw the red stain on the sheet

Hot, heavy tears pricked the corners of my eyes. I exhaled, "No… this can't be real." I looked around again. A dim light filtered through the closed curtains. Something bitter, perhaps liquor, and a hint of cologne filled the air. As though someone had been snoozing all night, the sheets were tangled. Then I became aware of it—the steady breathing next to me. I stiffened. I turned my head slowly. Nightangle Thane. With each deliberate breath, his broad shoulders rose and fell as he lay on his side.

My fingers dug into the sheets beneath me, my chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. Then he did it again, this time to the other. The sudden tug sent a strong feeling through me and I couldn’t hold back the cry that tore from my lips. My eyes burned as tears pricked at the corners, blurring my vision. My entire body trembled from the discomfort. “That’s it,” he murmured. He let the scissors drop onto the bedside. I swallowed hard with my chest rising and falling, my mind caught between emotions I couldn’t even begin to untangle.

It was a blank canvas, unsettling in its perfection. He was lying on a narrow, almost Spartan bed, draped in crisp, white sheets that felt starched and impersonal against his skin. His head rested on a pillow that offered little comfort, and his body ached with a deep, pervasive soreness that went beyond the superficial cuts and rope burns on his wrists. He glanced down at them; they were meticulously bandaged, stark white against his pale skin, but the underlying throbbing reminded him of their recent trauma.

Naked except for the sheet tangled around his waist. His eyes met mine, wide and stormy gray in the harsh morning light. “Uh,” he said, voice rough from sleep. “Morning?” I nodded once. My throat felt like gravel. He sat up slowly, clutching the sheet to his chest like I hadn’t memorized every inch of him hours ago. His curls were a disaster, sticking up in every direction, and there was a faint mark on his collarbone that I’d put there. Heat flashed through me again, uninvited.

Every‌thing smells like medicine. Con​ra​d was s‌ta​nding‍ near⁠ the wa​ll. His hospital gown h‍ung‍ loosely on him. His arm w⁠as wrapp​ed with a ban​dage where the​ d‍r‍ip ha‍d be​en. Hi⁠s fa⁠ce was hard, jaw tight. ‌When he s​a⁠w⁠ Stefa⁠n, h⁠is eyes dar⁠kened.

“Fuck… what time is it?” The room is washed in morning light. Too much light. I turn my head— And there he is. Asleep. Completely out. The sheets tangled low around him, barely covering anything, his body stretched out like he doesn’t have a single care left in the world. Sunlight spills through the windows, sliding across his chest, catching along his face, gilding him in gold.