Chapter Sixteen

Her eyes were clear again, and he returned her nod. Relinquishing his hold on her, he jutted his chin toward the bed. "Well, then, get some sleep."

She glanced back, following his indication, and then looked at him wide-eyed. "What? Here?"

Setting her on the floor, he climbed to his feet and straightened his dressing gown in sharp, angry snapping motions. "Miss Granger, I need rest, as do you, and as I hardly find the prospect of again waking to discover a wayward vampire in the room without any sort of warning, it's perhaps simply easier on both of us if you stay here."

"Then does . . . ." She scrambled to collect herself while clambering up to stand, as well, and slipped her hands into her sleeves, fingers clasping her own wrists to keep herself from fidgeting. "Then does that mean you're going to be here, too?"

His brows jumped upward as though she had just spoken in a foreign tongue. Had his statement not made that perfectly obvious or was she being deliberately obtuse? "It's my room, of course I am."

"But I mean . . . ." Hermione waved an elbow vaguely in the direction of the proffered bed. "There? Both of us there?"

Another thought occurred to him. "Am I, perhaps, not speaking English?" As he asked the question, he pressed his fingertips to his chest, darting his gaze about the room with a mildly confused expression on his face. It had been a very long night—morning—day, it was entirely possible utter gibberish had just fallen from his lips.

"No, no, you are. But just . . . ." She sighed, her shoulders sloping down. "Seems like it might be awkward."

He declined to give the possibly expected 'we are both perfectly rational adults' speech, because he suspected that if nothing else, neither of them had made terribly rationally decisions over the last several hours of their lives.

Instead, he offered a tightlipped, mirthless grin and swept his hand toward a piece of furniture against the far wall. "You are, of course, welcome to sleep on the chaise. I, however, am going back to sleep in my bed."

With that said, he pivoted on his heel and stomped—in a somehow dignified and aristocratic manner—to the bed. He did not look back, did not say another word as he reached to sort the rumpled covers.

While he moved to slip beneath them, Hermione found her gaze drawn back to the floor. To the spot where she'd awoken. "Mr. Malfoy?"

"Hmm?" he breathed out the sound in an irritated huff of air.

"How, exactly, did I end up on the floor?"

Lucius turned his back to her, determined stuffing his hands beneath his pillow and squeezing shut his eyes. "What do you mean 'exactly'?"

She looked up at him and then back at the floor. "I . . . I mean . . . ." Didn't she recall an odd thumping sensation that had awoken her? "I mean, what? Did I stumble in here dead-asleep and just crumble onto the floor? Or did I simply curl up in that spot like a pet cat and bump my head on the leg of the bedpost?"

"You came in asleep, and woke up on the floor. Nothing more to it."

The vampire-witch was struck with a very sudden, very certain, sense that he was not being at all truthful—that he was fully aware of what had led to a knock against the floor waking her. Narrowing her eyes, she merely watched him for a moment.

He was on the very edge along the opposite side of the mattress. It was a large bed. And she refused to sleep on a chaise—the thing appeared so stylishly slender, she imagined a mere leg twitch would send her sprawling off it.

"Huh," was all she finally uttered in response as she moved to the other side of the bed and copied him, veritably clinging to the edge after climbing under the covers.

Unable to help his curiosity at her thoughtful sound, Lucius echoed it in question.

She shrugged and closed her eyes. "I suppose I just never expected a Malfoy to be such a lousy liar."