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“No.” I shake my head immediately. “No, he did not claim me.”

“Belinda—”

“He just got a little carried away.”

“Baloney!”

“It happens!”

“To who?”

“People!”

“What people?”

“People having really good sex do not accidentally perform ancient supernatural mating rituals!”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do!”

“Well, I don’t, so there.”

Excellent argument, Belinda. Really compelling.

I yank open the bathroom door and march into my bedroom because standing half naked in a towel while discussing whether I’ve accidentally been supernaturally married to my neighbor seems especially undignified.

Clarissa buzzes after me.

“What are you going to do now?”

“About what?”

“He claimed you!”

“No, he didn’t.”

I drop the towel and pull on underwear.

“He bit you. During sex. A claiming bite.”

“According to you,” I murmur.

“Not me. That’s according to ALL supernatural lore.”

“Please. Lore is basically gossip with footnotes.”

“Belinda!”

I grab a bra. The clasp slips out of my fingers.

Twice.

No, I am not panicking. My hands are simply—golden sparks crackle between my fingertips, and fuck, that is not normal—not working this morning.

“Stop that.”

The sparks continue.