“Made this the best day of my life,” he says.
“Really? The day we tortured my ex-husband?”
His grin flashes. It’s sharp, and boyish, and outright dangerous. “Yeah.”
“I can’t believe that.”
“Please do.”
The music chooses that exact moment to kick in. I roll my shoulders, let the damp ends of my hair fling droplets into the air. My hips find the rhythm. Slow, left, right.
“Come on,” I tease. “There must’ve been something better than this.”
He stops dead. I collide with him, and he just absorbs the impact.
“Nope, Little Grim,” he says. “Everything before you was shit.”
My body answers before my mouth can.
I rise onto my toes, arms sliding around his neck. He tips me into a slow dip, skimming me close to the floor before bringing me back, inch by inch.
“I don’t know anything about your past,” I whisper.
He exhales a laugh that doesn’t quite make it. Then he takes my hand from his neck and presses it to his chest. His heart hammers against my palm.
“You wouldn’t like it,” he says quietly.
“Well,” I murmur, “you could at least let me decide that.”
He huffs, glancing toward the corridor where the house still groans with Mark’s debts being collected, then back at me.
“Fine,” he says. “But not here.” He tilts his chin upward. “Rooftop.”
“What, like under the stars? With crows and everything?”
“Yeah.” His voice drops to a murmur as he steps away. “And a bottle of tequila. Nathaniel’s got citric acid somewhere. We’ll dilute it and pretend it’s lemon juice.”
That actually sounds... romantic.
In our own way.
He doesn’t wait for my answer. Just grabs the little portable music box, tucks it under one arm, snags a sweatshirt from the back of a chair, and holds out his other hand like I’m already following.
And I am.
We raid Nathaniel’s stash on the way, grabbing a bottle of top-shelf tequila already a third gone, two dented metal tumblers, a shaker that still smells faintly of coffee, a tub of citric acid, and two thick blankets. In the hospital’s archaic cafeteria, we find a few paper salt packets, and we’re good to go.
Or so I think. But Talon surprises me.
In a supply closet, he stops, grabs a towel from a hook, and scrubs at his jaw until the last trace of Mark is gone. Then he rinses his hands in the sink, shakes them dry like a dog, and turns back to me.
“Figured I shouldn’t tell the story being all bloodied and shit.”
“I really don’t mind,” I say again. It’s not me he’s cleaning up for, though.
“If I’m gonna do this, I might as well tell you about my Gran,” he says. “And she sure as hell wouldn’t want me talking about her with blood on my face.”
“Oh,” I murmur. Not to be dramatic, but it feels like I’m about to get more than just a story. He’s actually about to open up.
