Page 682 of End Game

“That sounded ominous.”

“It wasn't.”

“Definitely sounded ominous.”

Micah walks past me carrying the plates. “You started it.”

“Started what?”

“I don't know yet.”

That's the problem.

Neither do I.

Ronan puts the last book into the box, closes it, and looks at me over his glasses. “Goodnight, Dexter.”

My dick reacts.

Because of course it does.

Then Ronan walks away.

Nothing happens for a few weeks.

So I forget about it.

Mostly.

Which is why, when Thursday night rolls around, I expect D&D.

Actual D&D.

Swords.

Spells.

Questionable tactical decisions.

Cami murdering something with glitter.

Instead, I walk into the dining room at six fifty-eight and stop so hard Micah runs directly into my back.

“What the fuck?”

His hand lands automatically at my waist. “What?”

I point.

Everything is wrong.

Not wildly wrong.

That's what makes it worse.

Ronan's DM screen is at the head of the dining room table.

We don’t play in the dining room.