She nods as if she understands. Mutters one more apology for the road.
Then she turns her head, vomits upon the pavement, and passes out in my arms.
twenty
MERRICK
Dawn comes all too quickly, and with it the lingering scents of tequila and roses and regret.
Miss Bonnivarde.
I open my eyes. I’m still sprawled in the bedroom chair I feel asleep in, and when I finally rise, every one of my muscles clamors to remind me why giving up my bed was a terrible idea.
The aforementioned bed, where I deposited the inebriated little witch last night, is empty, the shape of her impressed upon the mattress.
I close my eyes, remembering the feel of her in my arms.
Her voice echoes.
A teensy, tiny, infinitesimal, minuscule, pea-sized, microscopic crush…
Then again, hours later, as I tucked her carefully and fully clothed into the bed, and she stirred briefly, opening her eyes and clutching at my arm, uttering the question I’ve feared since our first meeting.
Why—
Damn it.No. I can’t go back there. The time to respond was last night, and I didn’t. Chances are, she’s forgotten she ever asked. I must endeavor to do the same.
I shake the thoughts loose. Try to get my bearings. The scent of coffee permeates, thank the bloody devil.
Tequila? What the fuck was I thinking?
Iwasn’tthinking, that’s the problem. I outsourced all cognitive processes to a stubborn, incorrigible witch whose devious enchantments have bewildered me to the point of ineptitude.
A crush. Really. Get it together, Sutherland.
I know I should be cross with her. Set firmer boundaries. Then again, shedidmake coffee. Perhaps there are also more of those delectable muffins.
A demon can hope!
Fine. Coffee and muffins first. Reaffirming boundaries second. Discussing her little crush, and the way she felt gathered in my arms last night… never.
I’ve just opened the bedroom door when I hear it. The sound of her laughter coming from the kitchen. The low rumble of male voices. More laughter.
What in the seven Hells…
I bolt for the kitchen, ready to destroy any man who dare break into my home. Who dare make my witch laugh. Who dare?—
I stop dead in my tracks.
Crowded around the small breakfast nook, I find two hulking demons in their Hell-spawned forms. One fresh-faced witch with her hair up in a messy bun. And there, on the other side of the kitchen, a slobbering hellhound nearly the size of a small car, her entire head stuffed into the bin, savoring the scraps of whatever it was I neglected to put out on the curb.
“Look who’s decided to join the land of the living,” says Warren, cracking a wide grin. His teeth are bright against the ebony dark of his demon skin. “Good morning, Dr. Sutherland. You’re looking rather peaked. Heard you had a bit of a wild night last night?”
“Lizzy was just telling us how she drank you under the table.” Oliver shakes his head, slurping his coffee. “Sad, really. In my day, a proper demon could hold his liquor.”
I stand there taking it all in, silently fuming. They’ve already helped themselves to the coffee I’d hoped was for meandraided the pantry and refrigerator, relieving me of an entire jar of peach jam, several blocks of hard cheese I’ve only just had delivered, and a box of toaster pastries I’ve yet to try. Medusa has made a right mess of the trash. There are no muffins in sight.
The witch is looking at me with her bright, inquisitive eyes, offering nothing but the quirk of her lips and an adorable shrug, as if that just explains it all.
