“Yes?”
“I’m going to need you to not look at me for a second.”
His warmth shifts, a careful retreat. “I can face the door.”
“Thank you.”
I stay exactly where I am, cheek against the cool table, listening to the nothing-sound of him not moving. My heartbeat is still doing something structurally unsound behind my ribs.
I give myself a few moments. Then I catalog the following facts: I am lying face-down on my worktable. My leggings are still on, technically, though they’ve migrated to a position that suggests they had an eventfulafternoon. My shirt is rucked up under my armpits.
The rosemary-oat bars are still setting perfectly.
And the most thorough orgasm of my adult life just happened.
“Okay.”
I push myself upright.
The motion is slow, my arms shaky and loose. Oz has peeled away with a warmth that lingers like a handprint on sun-heated glass.
I pull my shirt down, tug my leggings back into position, and swipe at the mica on my cheek, which just smears it further.
“Okay,” I say again.
Oz has settled back from me.
Three feet of deliberate distance.
His form is less humanoid than it was before, the edges soft and pooling. He’s watching me the way he’s been watching me since the crate: total attention, total stillness, room for me to land whereverI need to.
I sit on the stool and look at him straight on.
“I need to say something.”
The violet deepens. “I’m listening.”
“That was really good.”
A wave of gold so bright it throws light onto the drying rack.
“But,” I continue, “You deserve to understand what town you just arrived in. It’s a good town. It’s my town, and I love it. But it’s small, and people talk because they care, and caring looks a lot like knowing everybody’s business.”
“Oh.”
“If anyone finds out you’re here, I won’t just be the woman who let a monster into her house. I’ll be the woman whoorderedone. Off the Internet. Like a—” I wave my hand, searching for the word and hoping I don’t find it. “Like a mail-order situation. Do you understand what that means in a place like this?”
His surface ripples. The jagged static pattern I saw earlier,brief and bright. “I understand what people assume about slimes.”
“It’s bigger than slimes. People around here aren’t sure about any of it.” I pull my knees up on the stool, hugging them to my chest. “About twelve years ago, before the Unveiling, a hiker went missing on the ridge trail. The search party found her all shaken up a few days later, talking gibberish about aliens, monsters… She couldn’t describe what took her.”
“Oh,” he says again, looking slightly deflated.
I continue, “A few months later, the Garcias lost a few goats in one night—torn up in ways the wildlife officer said he’d never seen. When the Unveiling happened, half this town decided they finally had an explanation for whatever had been out there on the ridge. That it was a monster, and that we’d never welcome any in this town.”
He hesitates, before asking, “Doyoufeel that way? That monsters have no place in—”
“No.” I hold up a hand. “I just let you—on myworktable, Oz. I think my personalposition on monsters is pretty well established at this point.”
