“Didn’t have to. I’ve known Draegan a long time. I can read him better than he can read himself. You’re just… It’s a lot for him to process. Doesn’t help that his brain is just a hunk of solid stone now—doesn’t turn back at sunset with the rest of his body.”
A laugh escapes, her mood brightening considerably.
“And now, my witchling, you and I have an important decision to make.”
“About Draegan?”
“Way more important than that. We need to pick the rest of the lasagna filling.” I open the fridge, scanning the recently stocked shelves. “Let’s see, we’ve got soy crumbles, vegan sausage—”
“Fake meat? For an Italian feast?” She gasps, her eyes wide with mock horror. “Augustine Lamont, the owners of this place should revoke your head chef status. A mix of finely chopped portobello mushrooms and red peppers is theonlyacceptable answer here.”
I press a hand to my heart, gazing at her with open admiration. “Westlyn Avery, I think I just came.”
“Not near the food, I hope. That’s a serious health code violation.”
“But not one of your food allergies. We’ve tested that out more than enough times to be sure.”
A devious grin curves her lips. “I don’t know, Augs. You can never be too certain. Allergies evolve all the time.”
“You’re right. We should probably test it again, just to be on the safe side.”
She laughs again, and I capture it with a kiss, losing myself in the soft heat of her mouth, in the gentle slide of her tongue against mine. Her fingers thread into my hair, gently curling around my horns as my cock stirs between her thighs…
“Auggie,” she pants, breaking for air, but I’m not ready to let her go just yet.
I claim her again, my kiss deeper, more devastating.
She pulls back, pawing at my chest. “Burning—”
“Me too, witchling. You’re too fucking hot for your own good. You—”
“Not me, Top Chef! The stove!” She finally breaks out of my hold and hops off the counter, making a mad dash for the stove. “The potholder is literally on fire!”
* * *
Tragic potholder death aside, our Italian feast is a smashing success. The whole spread looks beautiful on the table, and West even lets me take a few photos of the presentation before ringing the proverbial dinner bell. Draegan shows up as promised, with Jude and Rook not far behind. The wine never stops flowing. And I can’t recall a time when my boys loved one of my dishes so much they didn’t leave so much as a single bite of leftovers.
Between sips of wine and nibbles on the last of the lasagna, Rook and West eagerly update everyone on the new intel they dug up on Zorakkov, along with the ever-deepening mysteries of the Codex and the still-elusive Spell of Unmaking. The fact that West has been able to tap into her magic on command for two nights running has us all raising a glass.
She and Rook seem especially cozy tonight, his wing drawn protectively around her shoulders, her body angled toward him, her eyes lighting up whenever he explains a particularly complex bit of demon lore.
I’m glad they’re getting closer. She has a way with our resident genius—a sweetness that’s drawn him out of a shell fifteen hundred years in the making.
Jude can’t take his eyes off her, either, which doesn’t surprise me. He was the first of us to cross her path, and he’s been obsessed with her ever since.
Even Draegan’s let down his guard a bit tonight, which feels like a rare chance to see the damn sunrise again.
It’s hands down the best dinner we’ve ever had at Blackmoor. Not just because our sage-tomato sauce is restaurant-worthy, which, let’s face it.Obviously.
But because all of us are gathered here, sitting at the same table, at the same time, laughing and drinking and truly enjoying each other’s company.
This is family…
The thought comes unbidden, followed immediately by another one, even more powerful than the first—so intense it steals my breath and nearly brings me to my knees with the sudden force of wanting it so, so badly.
This ismyfamily.
I take another moment to look at them. To appreciate this moment and how far we’ve come since the dark fae cursed us.
