Page 41 of Roaring Spell

“I’m thorough.”

Rhodes’s brow rose. “Thorough?”

Caius stands before the teasing can escalate. “We reconvene in three days unless circumstances change.”

The others file out—Anouk first, Rhodes still scribbling notes, Elio disappearing into shadows like he was never solid to begin with. But Aslan lingers.

And that grin is back.

“Don’t.” I know what’s coming.

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You’re about to.”

“Am I?” He leans against the doorframe, all casual tiger and knowing eyes.

“Look. Leire worries you’re going to wait until it’s too late. The patience thing is admirable, but at some point you have to actually make a move.”

“I’m making moves.”

“Coffee and furniture repair aren’t moves. They’re courtship basics.” Aslan’s voice softens. “Leire waited too long with me. Almost lost everything because she was scared. Don’t make the same mistake.”

Before I can respond, Rhodes appears in the doorway behind him.

“Are you two done with the relationship counseling? Some of us have actual work to finish.”

“Rhodes.” Aslan turns with theatrical enthusiasm. “Perfect timing. Torin writes poetry about the weather witch. What’s your professional opinion?”

“My professional opinion is that personal entanglements compromise operational efficiency.” Rhodes doesn’t blink. “However, I did accidentally read one of his notebooks last month—thought it was case notes—and the metaphors weren’t entirely without merit.”

“You’ve seen my writing?”

“You left a journal at the Stone Circle. I read three pages before realizing it wasn’t evidence-related.” Rhodes raises his brows. “The verse about her laugh being ‘borrowed weather—brief and bright and not yet his to keep’ was grammatically questionable but emotionally resonant.”

I’m going to dig a hole and hibernate until everyone forgets I exist.

Elio and Veren materialize from the shadows simultaneously—because apparently everyone has to participate in my humiliation, and apparently they’ve been standing there the whole time.

“How many people have read my writing?”

“Only the essential personnel.” Elio’s smile is sharp. “And anyone they’ve told. Which is... most of the Network. Also portions of the coven. Also Bruno. Also⁠—”

“I offered odds.” Veren looks entirely too pleased with himself. “Three-to-one you’d have her claimed before the next full moon. I’m not confident anymore. You’re moving at a genuinely tragic pace.”

“There’s a betting pool.”

“There’s always a betting pool. Ask Aslan how much I made off him.”

“I don’t want to know.”

“Wise. The number would only depress you further.” Veren pats me on the shoulder with the gravity of a man delivering condolences. “Chin up. Bad poetry is a stage. Most of us grow out of it.”

“Get out. All of you. Now.”

They scatter, laughing, and I’m left alone in the Stone Circle with the ashes of my dignity.

The moon is high by the time I finish patrol routes.