I don’t want to disappear again.
I want to exist, and I want to be free.
And I want to burn.
The legs of my chair squeak on the hardwood floor as I push myself away from the table and stand. “I have to go.”
Georgiana gapes at me, her perfectly painted lips in a shocked O. “What are you doing?” She gasps. “Sit back down.”
The siren doesn’t ask mewhyI want to leave. She doesn’t ask me if I’m feeling all right. She doesn’t have an ounce of worry for me as a living being.
She just wants me to sit down, close my mouth, and fit me into a neat plan she made without my input.
But my life is my own now.
“You gave me a place to stay when I didn’t have one.” I state the fact, acknowledging the gesture.
I should saythank you. But my father always demanded that I saythank youfor every single thing he gave me in life. I wasn’t allowed to eat without thanking him. I wasn’t allowed to sleep without thanking him. I wasn’t allowed to enter or exit the house without saying, “Thank you, Father, for this home.” I can’t say those two words anymore.
“But I’m moving out.” I pull cash from my purse and lay the bills on the table to pay for the food that I didn’t eat.
No need to thank anyone but myself. Ignoring the three baffled faces, I turn abruptly, walking as fast as I can toward the exit.
Only to run face-first into a warm, familiar chest.
10
BRODERICK
Not to soundlike a total creep, but I’ve been watching Ophelia since the moment she walked into Knives & Fangs. Some hidden force alerted me the second she pushed through the door. My body immediately wanted to abandon my dinner party and go to her, but the beautiful firebird was with a group. The siren Georgiana, her human doctor husband, and another man. A good-looking one, I guess. If you’re into Clark Kent vibes.
What soured me on him was the way he stared at Ophelia.
His gaze was assessing.
And possessive.
She’s her own fucking firebird!I wanted to shout across the restaurant.You don’t own her!
But I don’t know that Ophelia would have appreciated my defense, and my colleagues would have started asking questions about my sanity.
“I think we need to reword the rubric for the 102 midterm paper,” Sherry, another professor in the English department and a mermaid, says, leaning across the table to make sure everyoneis listening. “That’s the one I got the most emails about.” She pushes her long braids away from her plate and continues eating as the table debates how to update the assignment.
There are six of us here, including Delta Novac—the previous owner of Mor’s library and the newest faculty hire. The dragon shifter eagerly adds her point of view, drawn from years of teaching online college composition courses.
Normally, I would be all in on this discussion. Some professors dread teaching intro courses, but I enjoy getting the chance to encourage students at the beginning of their college careers. That first year is when they’re most vulnerable. When they doubt themselves.
My need to soothe anxieties has lots of opportunity to come into play.
But my entire attention stays trained across the restaurant, where Ophelia sits. She has her back to me, blocking her expression. But the longer I watch, the surer I am she isn’t saying a word.
So? She barely said anything at happy hour, I remind myself.
Just because the firebird isn’t chatty doesn’t mean she’s having a bad time.
But there’s orange in her aura. Darker than normal … right?
It’s hard to tell in the mood lighting of the restaurant.
