I look from him to the tea ingredients spread out on the pans. “Why would I put moonstone in it?” I ask, perplexed.
“No,” he chuckles. “For a safe word. I was going to go withimmortal, but it feels too on the nose and cocky,” he adds, a teasing smile on his face.
“I thought we established that you can’t exactly tick the immortal box on your census form, because it’s yet to be proven,” I counter, mouthingpremature ejaculationat him. “Oh I know,” I volunteer excitedly. “The safe word could beI swear that’s never happened before...no, that’s too long,” I note cheekily.
His eyes narrow, a playful glint alight in them as he slowly stalks toward me. Just watching him floods my lady basement, and I have to actively tell myself to keep my head in the game. As though the world decided to second that thought, the doorbell rings, and Hoot starts barking like a maniac. I swear he sounds like a dying goat, his bark caught somewhere between a donkey bray and a cat howl.
Rogan stops hunting me and straightens, his serious side shuttering down over him in the blink of an eye. I want to tell him not to answer it, not to break the moment of whatever is happening between us, but that’s selfish and stupid. I’m here because people are missing. And Rogan just placed a fuck ton of other reasons at my feet as to why it’s dumb to get caught up in our feels right now. He looks down at me, and it’s as though I can see the same argument going off in his mind that’s going off in mine.
“I think it might be Marx,” he declares, as though I need a reason to be okay with popping the bubble that was just around us and letting reality snake its way in.
“We should answer it then,” I encourage.
He watches me for a beat and then leans down and kisses me quickly. “I blame the kitchen too,” he tells me quietly against my lips, and then he leaves to answer the door.
I chuckle softly and touch my hand to my mouth, a mantra ofholy fucking shitrepeating in my head. I take a deep breath and try to clear my mind. “Well, that sure as fuck was informative while also being confusing as hell,” I mumble to myself and then chuckle. I guess that’s the story of my life these days though.
I hear Marx and Rogan exchanging greetings in the living room. With a silly smile and the warm and fuzzies making their way through my body, I move to go join them. Here’s to hoping that Marx has good news and somewhere pressing to be. Now to come up with that safe word.
20
Ilean back against the corner cushion of Rogan’s modern yet buttery soft sectional. The large lounge room is taupes and grays, and with the large windows surrounding us, I practically feel like I’m sitting in nature’s fancy-schmancy living room.
I refocus on what Marx and Rogan are talking about, having been momentarily distracted by the couch that cupped my ass better than my best pair of jeans. I don’t know if that’s a compliment to the couch or a call to replace my wardrobe, but either way, I put this couch on the list of things I need to figure out how to take with me when I go.
“I couldn’t find a registration for a witch named Nik Smelser,” Marx is telling Rogan as I tune back in. “I checked the human databases as well as what we have for other supes, but nothing was coming up. I asked the desk clerk if she had any other suggestions for places I could look, and when she was showing me how to navigate some archives, that’s when we got a break,” he explains, a small smile sneaking across his face.
“I had been ticking the male box on all of my searches, but she didn’t specify gender at all, and up popped the registry for Nik Smelser. I felt like such an idiot. I almost kissed her, I was so excited, and the woman is a bog troll,” Marx admits as Rogan cringes.
“Hold up,” I interrupt, lifting a finger in the universal sign that I need a minute. “Nik Smelser is a woman?” I ask, completely floored. I did not seethatcoming.
“Yep, I guess Nik is short for Nikki,” Marx offers with a small shrug, like this detail isn’t really worth fixating on.
The sun is just starting to peek over the tops of the trees surrounding Rogan’s house, and I take in the light pinks and purples that are streaking the sky as I conjure my bag of bones. I immediately open the top and look down critically at the contents inside.
“Really?” I ask the bones, judgment dripping from my tone. “Couldn’t just tack on two more letters?” I scold irritably.
Rogan smiles and shakes his head.
“To be fair, maybe she just goes by Nik, and that’s what your bones were tapping into,” Marx offers unhelpfully.
I level him with a warning look. “Don’t defend them, Marx, they know what they’ve done,” I tell him like some disappointed parent who doesn’t want to hear the excuses for bad behavior.
Rogan chuckles, and Marx’s attention snaps from me to him. He studies Rogan for a beat, like he’s trying to puzzle something out.
“You okay?” he finally asks. “You seem...different,” he points out suspiciously.
Rogan’s brow lifts with surprise. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
Marx continues to look at him as though he’s not buying it. His gaze flits to me for a fraction of a second and then settles back on Rogan. “Cough twice if you’re in danger,” he prompts out of nowhere.
“What?” Rogan and I both ask at the same time.
“Cough twice if you need help,” Marx clarifies, like it makes perfect sense.
“First of all, if Iwasin trouble, you would have just blown it, and second of all, I’m fine. What’s wrong withyou?” Rogan demands, now looking at his friend with concern.
“There’s not a damn thing wrong with me; you’re the one over here laughing like that’s a normal thing you do,” Marx accuses, and Rogan throws his hands up in exasperation.
