Page 39 of Of Magic and Murder

“What’s his name?” he asks, almost conversationally, once he has my attention.

The soft tone is so at odds with the fierce look blazing in his golden eyes that I’m confused for a second. “What was that?”

“His name, Penelope. What was the name of the feral that bit you?”

“It doesn’t matter⁠—”

“Oh. But I think it does.” He thumbs the badge on his belt. “Tell me, please. It’s okay. I just want to have a chat with him.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “This happened in California. I think he’s a little out of your jurisdiction.”

“You’re cute, witch, but you’re also stalling. Name, if you would? Of the feral and the territory he was poaching from.”

He’s really not going to let this drop, is he?

“It was the Wolf District⁠—”

Riordan’s eyes gleam orange in the sunset.

I hate to dash that triumphant look, I really do, but I know I will as soon as I say, “But that pack doesn’t exist anymore. There was infighting and the Alpha was killed. The pack was dismantled. It doesn’t matter anyway. After I got away, I reported what happened to Serena, the national coven council decided he needed to be put down. He was.”

“Good.”

In a way, I agree. Knowing the feral wasn’t out there, able to hurt anyone else… maybe I’m vindictive, but I’m glad.

That still doesn’t change the way it’s affected me for all the years in between.

I take a deep breath. “Do you know why I wear outfits like these?”

Long sleeves in the summer, and a long flowing skirt that goes down to my sandals? It’s because I’m free to run, to kick if I can, but also because I can hide beneath them.

When I’m by myself, I get comfortable in my skin. I have a few pairs of denim shorts that I bought in town once I decided to stick around Moonburrow, plus some short-sleeved tops. But as soon as I leave the bakery, I make sure to change. Same as when I’m in Salem or on any other mission. It’s been nine years since that feral caught me out on a hike that fateful trip to California, appreciated the tank top and shorts I was wearing, and made it his mission to shred the clothes off of me because, as he grunted at me, he liked my skin.

Most of my colleagues think I’m going for a witchy look, and maybe I am. But, deep down, I know it’s because I don’t ever want a predator to see something I have and decide they’re going to take it—and that includes my body.

But then I look at the way Riordan’s jaw goes hard while his gaze roves over me, and it’s easy to see that he’s not checking me out. Not the way that feral beast did. No, he’s making sure that I’m okay.

Am I? I… I don’t know.

Finally, he says, “I think you look amazing no matter what you wear. You’re beautiful, Penelope, and it doesn’t take a feral to see that. But that doesn’t change the fact that he tried to claim you against your will.”

It doesn’t, but I’d be an even bigger fibber if I said it didn’t do something to hear the matter-of-fact way the chief deputy referred to me as beautiful.

He growls under his breath. “No respectable wolf would ever do that.”

Later, I’ll admit it was the growl that made me reckless.

“What about you?” I ask innocently. “Are you respectable?”

Holy Hecate. Did that just pop out of my mouth? It did. I know it did, but I don’t know why. It doesn’t matter. Those three words are enough to shift the mood entirely.

His lips quirk up in a grin that is undeniably wolfish—and, yet, I’m totally not afraid of Riordan at this moment.

Just in case, he makes sure to say, “You have nothing to fear from me.”

That’s not a yes, is it?

And I know I’m playing with fire. Despite being the Beta of his pack, he’s definitely a born alpha wolf shifter. He can’t help that charisma and dominance that flows off of him like water anymore than I can stop the magic from welling up inside of me. He’s careful not to use his curse against me, but the rest of him… I’m finding it hard to resist.