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“I was making an observation.” He poured himself a cup of tea—green. “If either of us should have trust issues, it’s me.” His gold eyes—the color so warm for someone with such an evil stare—flicked to her mug. “Are you drinking black coffee?”
She ignored him and glanced at the cat-shaped clock above the sit-down counter. “I’ve gone almost a full twenty-four hours without tricking you.” She smiled. “I think that calls for a medal.”
“I still want to know how you did it.” He sipped his tea.
She mirrored him, bringing her own mug to her lips. “Tough luck, pal.”
Roman’s eye-twitch was back. And gods, did it amuse her.
Twenty minutes later, their food arrived. They’d both ordered the pancakes, but Roman’s came with the toppings—berries, whipped cream—on the side. Even the butter had its own dish.
“You’re a picky eater,” she observed as she dug in.
He ignored her.
“How do your shadows work?”
“We’re gonna talk about my magic but not yours?”
“Who said I have magic?” She took another bite, already halfway done and Roman hadn’t even started.
“I can control the shadows in any room,” he said. “The bigger the area, the harder it is to control them.”
“So they’re not, like, in you?” She waved her fork at him.
He merely looked at her, his expression impossible to read, as always. “I can also fuck with them.”
She choked on her pancake. Banging her chest with a fist, she reached for her water and drank, feeling the chunk of pancake shimmy down her throat. She set down the glass, eyes watering, and said, “Excuse me?”
He simply ate in silence.
Shay didn’t ask him anything else.
After the waitress collected their empty dishes, Roman downed his water and said, “That’s one way to get you to shut up.”
She glared, realizing she had no idea if he’d lied or not, and that she’d managed to let him out of the conversation way too easily.
The waitress returned with the bill. Before she could give it to Roman, Shay handed over a fifty. “Keep the change,” Shay told her.
“Thanks, doll.” She winked. “Enjoy your day.”
Roman was staring again.
“You’re welcome,” Shay crooned.
The way his mouth twitched reminded her of a wolf about to bite. And when he spoke, his voice was a growl. “Thanks, Roman.”
Sunbaked dirt crunched under Shay’s hiking boots as she crossed the small lot of Motel 58. Roman walked several paces behind her; she could feel his chronically pissed-off stare drilling a hole in the back of her head.
But she paid him no mind and offered him no explanation as to what she was doing as she breezed into Omar’s office.
The bells on the door chimed, and Shay stopped short at the sight of the mortal woman in her sixties sitting at the desk—the kindest-looking lady Shay had ever seen, with a ruddy complexion, graying hair tied up in a curly updo, and a friendly smile. A pair of eyeglasses hung from her neck on a gold chain.
“You’re not Omar,” Shay blurted.
The door opened behind Shay, a wave of heat blasting in as Roman crowded her into the small office.
The hair on Shay’s scalp prickled, but she didn’t turn, resisting the urge to step away from Roman’s overwhelming presence.
