“I… I understand.” I clear the tightness from my throat. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again—I swear.”
“See that it doesn’t.” He loosens his grip around my wrist, then gently places my hand against my chest and pulls the sheet up to my chin—a tender gesture completely at odds with his cold demeanor.
When he speaks again, his voice has lost some of its edge. “I’m sorry you’re having trouble sleeping. It can be hard for mortals to adjust to our schedule.”
“I’ll manage. Like I said, I’m already a night owl. A few more days and I’ll be all synced up with the boys.”
“Good. I…” He holds my gaze for another beat, but whatever he meant to say, he lets it go. “Anyway, I’ll see about getting you something to help you sleep. I know a reliable potions master who’s more skilled than any mortal pharmacist.”
A flicker of annoyance sparks to life, chasing away the earlier heat. “That’syour solution? Drug me?”
“We can’t very well have you screaming bloody murder every night. How are we to know whether you’re actually in danger? Not to mention, it’s downright disruptive. You share a home with four others now, Miss Avery. Try to keep that in mind.”
Goddess, the guys were right. He reallyislike a dad. A supremely irritating one.
“I’m sorry if my nightmares are inconvenient for you,” I say, “but we made a deal. I share a home with you now, just like you said. Me. A mortal. And that comes with all my quirks and foibles—disruptive nightmares, hair in the shower drains, annoying dietary restrictions, avian companions, and whatever else might be on your list of things to complain about. And in exchange for putting up with me, I help you with the fae research and whatever I can tell you about the—”
“And it’s not enough.”
“No?” I scoff. “What else can I give you, Draegan? What do you need? Because I’m at a loss here.”
“What Ineedis that Codex—a thing that’s currently locked away in the Archmage’s brownstone. And I can’t make him an offer, because right now, there’s only one thing in the whole bloody world the Archmage would be interested in acquiring, and he doesn’t even know we’ve got it.”
He shoves a hand through his hair, the muscles in his jaw ticking. When he meets my eyes again, I swear I see a flash of anguish in his gaze.
“I know,” I whisper, shame heating my cheeks. It’s no wonder he’s so cold and distant with me.
Me. I’m the thing Forsythe wants. The thing Draegan’s keeping secret.
And at what cost?
If not for me bailing at the altar, he might’ve already gotten the Codex. The gargoyles might’ve already broken their curse.
“You wish you hadn’t saved me,” I say softly. It’s not a question. “You wish you could go back to that night in the bell tower and just… just remain a statue and let me dash my brains on the street below. Your life would be a lot less complicated now, wouldn’t it?”
I search his eyes for that anguish again, for the storm, for even the slightest hint of emotion, but there’s nothing there. All of his walls are firmly back in place.
“It would,” he says flatly. Then, turning on his heel and heading for the door, “I have a meeting in Kingston. You should… go eat something. I’m sure Augustine is eager for you to try his apple muffins.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
AUGUSTINE
“Well! Look who decided to join the land of the living.” I grin at the groggy-faced witch shuffling into the kitchen. “Lucinda and Huxley were starting to worry.”
“Can’t talk.” She plunks herself down on a bench at the breakfast nook, where her birds are busily pecking away at a muffin. “Need caffeine.”
“One step ahead of you, as always.” I set the almond joy latte before her, and she grabs it like a ravenous fiend and downs half of it in one go.
Only then does a true smile grace her face. “Thank you, Auggie. You’re a lifesaver.”
“Don’t letthatget out. My reputation as a stone-cold killer can’t afford the hit.”
She laughs and finally looks up at me, but the moment our gazes connect, she lets out a little gasp and lowers her eyes back to the mug, her cheeks darkening.
Devil’sballs, that shade of pink looks good on her…
I’ve got no idea what’s going on inhermind right now, but mine? Let me break it down. I’m standing here looking at a girl sitting on a bench in her eggplant emoji boxer shorts, white knee socks pulled all the way up to mid-thigh, sky blue hoodie zipped to her chin. Her freshly washed hair is piled on her head in a wet bun, sheet marks still crease her face, and her small hands are wrapped tight around the mug of a drink I made for her—a drink we both love. Two ravens pace the table, occasionally nudging her hand for an affectionate head rub. Whole thing’s a fucking photograph—a picture-perfect snapshot that’s already sealed in my memory for the rest of my immortal life, no camera required.
