Fifteen minutes later, Hunt lay in his own bed, teeth gritted as he stared at the ceiling, with only a snoring Syrinx for company. It was fine. Totally fucking fine that Ithan Holstrom was sharing Bryce’s bed. Totally. Fucking. Fine. His bed, his blood roared. Even if he hadn’t been near it in months. His bed, his Bryce, who’d emerged from the bathroom in her sleep shorts and a faded, threadbare T-shirt that did nothing to hide the shadow of her nipples behind the purple fabric. Thankfully, Holstrom’s eyes were too swollen for Hunt to notice if the male looked. Not that it really mattered. He
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