“You certainly seem to know your way around the guest rooms,” I mutter, for lack of anything else to say. Daemon puts me down and bends to turn on the faucets. “This isn’t a guest room. This is my room—or, it was, when I lived here.” I blink in surprise. I’m not sure what to make of the fact that he wanted me to sleep in his room, even expecting that he wouldn’t be in here with me. I don’t know what to make of it. Actually, that’s a lie. I know exactly what to make of it. I know exactly what all of these tiny gestures added together mean, but I’m afraid to voice it out loud because the second
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