Rowdy || 18+ || RH

Chapter 49

Emersyn

I'm vaguely aware that I'm awake, a sense of consciousness slowly seeping in. My skin, once ablaze with fever, now feels calm, the fire extinguished. I'm surprisingly well-rested, the physical weight of my illness lifted. Yet, my heart is heavy, burdened with the loss of the bakery, my dream, my job.

Beneath my head, the pillow is incredibly soft. It smells masculine and woodsy.

Wait. This isn't my pillow.

My eyes flutter open, revealing an unfamiliar room. This isn't my bed. The sheets, black and smooth, feel like silk or satin beneath my fingers – luxurious, but foreign.

My gaze drifts around the room, taking in the clean, tidy space that somehow feels dark, even brooding. The furniture, all dark wood, the walls a deep gray, nearly black.

A question echoes in my mind, where the fuck am I?

Before I can gather my thoughts to sit up, a strong arm encircles my waist, pulling me back against a muscular, firm chest. A surge of confusion and surprise floods through me.

I shift ever so slightly, cautious not to rouse the person sharing the bed. My breath hitches as I turn to face the sleeping figure beside me – it's Marx. His room, his bed.

Why am I here? Did I wander in my fevered state?

I take a moment to study Marx's face. In sleep, his features are softened, the usual hardness giving way to an unexpected calmness.

There's an urge to reach out, to trace the roughness of his beard, to explore the unfamiliar tenderness of his expression. But I resist, the thought laced with a mix of desire and hesitation.

I should leave his bed, figure out the mystery of my unexpected presence here. But as I contemplate my escape, I can't help but linger a little longer, taking in the rare sight of Marx's unguarded visage.

His breathing is even, a gentle rhythm that's oddly soothing. In this moment, he's just Marx, not the brooding, stoic figure he usually is.

This must be what he looks like in his most vulnerable state.

I like it.

The room itself feels like a reflection of Marx – strong, dark, and a little mysterious. The black silk sheets, the heavy blackout curtains, the solid dark furniture – it's all him, unapologetically so.

And here I am, in the midst of it, an intruder in his private domain.

I wonder if he's going to be mad that I'm here. I should probably leave before he wakes. Save us both some awkwardness.

Slowly, I edge away from his hold, careful not to disturb his slumber. My heart races with a mix of adrenaline and anxiety.

How did I end up in Marx's bed?

Before I can fully escape his hold, his strong arm pulls me back in, nestling me against his chest once again. He lets out what sounds like a contented sigh. But that isn't right. He wouldn't be content knowing that I'm intruding in his room, his bed.

"Marx," I whisper against his chest.

"Hmm," he rumbles, his voice thick with sleep.

He isn't awake. Probably in that half awake half asleep state that I've been in for days. I'm thinking he's more on the asleep side of things.

His eyes remain closed, but the arm around me tightens just a fraction, a silent acknowledgment of my presence. The warmth of his body seeps into me, a stark contrast to the chill of the room.