“Are you concerned about me?” Rook grins. Then winces, as the movement pulls at his cut lip.
“Maybe,” I say with a nonchalant shrug, though it’s not him I’m thinking about.
I’ve put a lot of work into this con already, and even more into getting Dante back. Right now, all my eggs are in Rook’s basket, but I can get new eggs, or make an omelet, or—honestly, I’m not really sure what the eggs are supposed to represent in that metaphor. The point is, sometimes you have to cut your losses and come up with a different plan because you’ve lost control of the current one. Whoever did this to Rook is now an element I can’t control.
“But,” I say lightly, “I also have myself and my crew to consider.”
Something about my response amuses him. “You’re safe. Unless, of course, they suspect I care about you.”
Ooh, deflection by flirting. Amateur.
“That’s good, then,” I say. “Because you think I’m a…What did you call me? After I kicked your ass in my living room?”
“Chaos gremlin? Deranged trickster? Unholy terror?”
“Unholy terror! That was it.” I smirk.
His chuckles die as soon as I bring the cloth to his cut and run it softly over his bottom lip. He freezes, right where I want him.
“Does it have to do with your magic?” I ask softly.
Rook blinks several times in confusion.
“Your injuries,” I prompt.
“Ah. Funnily enough, no. I try not to use my magic if I don’t have to. I wouldn’t have the other day, except you were letting your house burn down, like a—”
“Unholy terror,” I finish for him.
“Exactly,” he says, his voice rough.
He swallows, then licks his lips, as though he’s thinking about saying something else.
I wait.
“Ow,” he says, his head jerking back, and I realize I’ve pressed too hard on the cut.
I suddenly notice that not only am I standing between his legs, my hand caressing his face (with a towel, but still), but he has a hand on my left hip, and I can’t remember him putting it there.
That’s fine. Everything’s fine. I’m still in control.
I keep my gaze on his lips and lean in ever so slightly. This is intentional. This is about the job, maintaining his trust, keeping him distracted, whatever. His breath hitches and he starts to lean toward me.
But then his eyes slide to something behind me, and he goes still. I turn to find Crowlene sitting on the windowsill, staring through the glass, unblinking. She ruffles her feathers, taps her beak annoyedly on the window three times, and then lets out a single angrycaw.
Rook clears his throat. “I’d better…put on something more appropriate for a business meeting.”
I have to step back to let him off the stool, and he gives me a sheepish look.
It’s only once he’s disappeared out the door that Crowlene flies off.
Ten
“I want to thank you all for meeting with me,” Rook says, now in fresh clothes. Though he’s wearing a suit jacket, he’s forgone the tie, and the first several buttons of his shirt are undone.
The others had arrived one by one. First Poppy emerged from a “rented” BMW. Then CJ pulled up in the hearse. Finally, an Uber dropped off Tolliver. They’d all dressed in their best business attire: Poppy in a suit with a snug jacket and no shirt, CJ in dark jeans and a sweater vest over a button-down, and Tolliver, bless him, in wrinkled khakis and a linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up. At least he tried.
We’re now seated around a small circular table in Rook’s library. Because of course his old money family home has a library. Just this room alone is probably bigger than my entire house, but despite the high arched ceiling and towering shelves, it feels claustrophobic, with dark furniture and low lighting.
