The bells above the door announced Silas's arrival with their cheerful jingle. He swept in like a gothic hurricane, balancing a tray of cinnamon cookies with one hand while the other adjusted the silver chains dripping from his horns. The metal links clinked and chimed with every step, catching the morning light in flashes that matched the dangerous gleam in his eyes. Those eyes landed on me, narrowed, and then widened with unholy glee as he took in my disheveled state from messy curls to unsteady stance.
"Well, well, well," he drawled, sashaying toward the counter with exaggerated hip movements. His black apron was dusted with powdered sugar. "Someone had an interesting night."
I busied myself with the espresso machine, suddenly finding the portafilter absolutely fascinating. "I don't know what you're talking about. I had a perfectly normal night of... sleeping."
"Mmmhmm." He set his tray of pastries down with a flourish. "That's why you've got sex hair even though you clearly tried to tame it, and why you're walking like you rode a mechanical bull all night."
Heat bloomed across my face. "I slept weird," I protested weakly. "Pulled a muscle."
"You're glowing suspiciously," Silas continued, leaning over the counter to examine me more closely, his horns jingling with the movement. "Like... 'touched by darkness and dicked into enlightenment' glowing."
I choked on nothing. Behind me, a snort of laughter erupted from near the window, where Bramble who had slipped in from the back hovered on iridescent wings, supposedly arranging a wreath of rosemary and protective herbs. The pixie's shoulders shook with suppressed mirth, her back deliberately turned toward us in a poor pretense of not eavesdropping.
"That's—that's completely inappropriate workplace conversation," I managed.
Silas raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow, the small silver hoop piercing it catching the light. "Oh, we're concerned about appropriate workplace behavior now? That's rich considering you definitely fucked the boss."
"I did not—we didn't—it wasn't—" I sputtered, each denial weaker than the last. "There was a... a meeting. After hours. To discuss... café... things."
"Café things," Silas repeated flatly, his eyes gleaming with demonic delight. "Like how to properly operate the espresso machine? Because you seem to be struggling with that basic task this morning." He gestured to where I was absentmindedly tamping coffee grounds with far too much pressure.
I jerked my hand away from the machine as if burned. "I'm just tired."
"From your meeting," Bramble chimed in, her voice tinkling like wind chimes despite the sarcasm dripping from every word. "The very not-at-all-naked meeting about café things."
My gaze snapped to the pixie, who had finally turned to face us. The rosemary wreath in her hands was half-finished and slightly lopsided, evidence of how long she'd been eavesdropping instead of working.
"Both of you can just…just shut it," I mumbled, trying to sound authoritative and failing spectacularly. "Nothing happened."
"The hickey peeking out from your collar suggests otherwise," Silas observed casually, reaching past me to snag a clean mug.
My hand flew guiltily from my throat. "It's a rash," I lied desperately. "From a new detergent."
"A rash," Silas repeated, each word dripping with disbelief. "Shaped like teeth marks. From detergent." He turned to Bramble. "You hear that, Bram? Our manager has a detergent rash shaped like massive fangs. We should report this dangerous laundry product immediately."
Bramble's tinkling laugh filled the café as she fluttered closer, the rosemary wreath abandoned on the windowsill. "Definitely. Public safety issue."
I grabbed a towel and furiously wiped at an already clean section of counter, avoiding eye contact with both of them. "Don't you have pastries to arrange, Silas? And Bramble, those protective wreaths need to be finished before the lunch rush."
My attempt to reassert managerial authority might have been more effective if my voice hadn't cracked embarrassingly on "rush" or if my hands weren't trembling so badly that I knocked over a stack of neatly arranged cups.
Silas caught one before it could shatter, his movements supernaturally fast. "Careful there, boss lady," he said, his tone gentling slightly despite the mischief still dancing in his eyes. "We're just teasing. Mostly." He paused, setting the rescued cup down safely. "But seriously, are you okay? Because you look like you've been rode hard and put away wet, and not entirely in the fun way."
The unexpected concern in his voice nearly broke me, I swallowed hard. "I'm fine," I said, the lie automatic but less convincing than usual. "Just... processing."
Bramble zipped over to hover near my shoulder, back to her smaller form, her tiny hand patting my cheek with surprising gentleness. "Processing a proper dicking, from the looks of it," she said, but the crude words carried an undercurrent of genuine care.
Silas and Bramble exchanged a look over my head, I didn't need to see it to know it happened.
"I'll get these cookies set up," Silas said finally, lifting his tray again. "But this conversation isn't over, honey. Not by a long shot." The chains on his horns jingled like cheerful warning bells as he moved toward the pastry case. "And when tall, dark, and horned shows up, try not to spontaneously combust from sexual tension. It's bad for business."
I groaned and dropped my forehead to the cool counter, wondering if it was too late to pretend I'd come down with a sudden, highly contagious case of plague.
Chapter eleven
Simone
Imanaged to avoid looking at his corner for exactly twenty-seven minutes. I knew because I'd been obsessively checking the clock, counting each second, if I made it to thirty minutes, maybe I'd be immune to whatever dark magic had possessed me last night. But then a customer asked for more napkins, and my path to the dispenser gave me no choice but to turn. And there he was. Krampus lounged in his corner booth like a pagan god accepting tributes, one massive leg stretched casually into the aisle, his eyes tracking my every movement over the rim of acoffee cup the size of a soup bowl. I pretended not to notice him, focusing instead on the careful arrangement of paper napkins in my hands. Too many. I was gathering way too many napkins. The werewolf who'd asked for them tilted his head in confusion as I approached his table with what must have looked like half our supply.
