Tangled In His Sheets Novels & Stories

He wiped the tears on my cheeks and placed kisses in its stead. I sniffled, “Carmelo,” my lips trembled, “Yes, tesoro.” A deep breath left me, “Lay with me,” I uttered. His gaze was quizzical and then he smiled. Of course he smiled. Ugh, this man. “Okay.” He took off his shoes, rounded the bed and slid in the covers behind me. I exhaled and whispered, “Closer.” He moved in further, his hand rested around my waist and his face nestling in my hair. His cold feet tangled with mine under the sheets. “Better?” he asked, “Hmm,” I hummed. I wished to forget the accident. I knew it was going to haunt me in my sleep from now on, just like many others did before. Today that son of a devil almost took

Owen P.O.V Turning the shower off, I reached for the towel hanging on the rack, shaking off the droplets of water clinging to my skin before wrapping the soft fabric securely around my waist. Steam curled in the air around me as I stepped out of the bathroom, my bare feet sinking slightly into the plush carpet. I ran a hand through my damp hair, pushing it back from my forehead as my gaze swept across the room. The bed looked like it had been through a war ,sheets tangled and twisted, pillows scattered across the floor, and the blanket knotted up like someone had tried to wrestle with it in their sleep. A mess, no doubt, but the one responsible for it, the wild little tornado from last night

He devoured my reaction and the blush stained across my cheeks and neck. Pure white feathers were tangled in the thick strands of his hair, jutting out at all angles—actually, they were everywhere. Plush tufts floating from a few feet above, drifting downwards as they became tangled in the sheets and within my curls. The tattered remains of the pillow I threw at him sat between us, shredded from the claws that now sunk back into my fingers. My eyes darted down to the silken sheets—the ones that matched the dark décor of the suite I slept in, the one that clearly did not belong to me.

The room was dimly lit, a soft amber glow from the bedside lamp casting long shadows across the walls. Alexander sat propped against a mound of pillows, his broad frame diminished by the weakness that still clung to him. His shirt hung loosely from his shoulders, unbuttoned at the collar, his chest bandaged beneath layers of gauze. He parted his lips as if to speak, but no words came.

“Shit—!” He shot off the bed like he’d been electrocuted, yanking the entire blanket with him in a panic. The sheets came with it, twisting around my legs like a vengeful ghost. He stumbled backward, half-naked, clutching the blanket like it was a shield and I was a damn dragon about to breathe fire. “Did we—did we… you know?” he sputtered, looking both horrified and confused, his voice high with panic. I raised an eyebrow, leaning casually back against the pillows, completely bare under what little dignity I had left.

Something unnatural coursing through him. He groaned once, restless, then went still again, his massive frame sprawled across silk sheets now damp with sweat and… other things. My throat tightened, but I forced my hands steady, wiping him down, shifting pillows, straightening blankets. It was a mess, the whole room a battlefield of what we’d just done, but I did what I could. The rest… the maids could handle in the morning. I wasn’t going to sleep beside him like this. Not tonight. Not when I didn’t trust what his body might do in the grip of whatever toxin was in him. I gathered myself, pulling a robe around my aching body, and turned toward the door.

The sheets torn. And on the floor, a single drop of blood.

His deep brown curls, usually neat and carefully styled, were now a tangled mess, stray strands falling over his forehead. Though relaxed in sleep, his features still held traces of tension—the furrow in his brow, the faint press of his lips. He was dressed in borrowed navy sweatpants that were too long for his frame, the cuffs haphazardly rolled up to avoid tripping, and a long-sleeved black t-shirt that swallowed his lean figure. And then there was Blaire.

I was standing on my hand and my feet were covered and tangled in the sheet. “What are you even doing??” She asked, rolling her eyes. She flipped the phone a little hastily, causing it to make a snap sound. “I got tangled in the sheet,” I said to her while maneuvering my way to the floor. “How do you even—” She raised her hand, shaking her head as if saying ‘out of mind, out of sight’.

Everything is precisely arranged, meticulously clean— except for the unmade bed that still carries the indent of his body. The sheets are twisted, pillows scattered like he fought battles in his sleep. I approach the bed slowly, my eyes tracing the depression in the Egyptian cotton where his body lay just hours ago. The covers are thrown back carelessly, and I can almost see him there— all that controlled power finally relaxed in sleep. His dark hair mussed against the pillow, those sharp cheekbones softened by rest. Would he sleep shirtless?