I shake my head. “Quite a mouth on that one these days,” I point out, and Tad snorts out a laugh.
“You died and she found her inner sailor.”
Tad and I stare at one another for a beat, the rest of the kitchen quiet, and tension leaks out of the atmosphere. Tad closes the distance and wraps me up in a hug.
“Don’t be mad, Supreme Boner,” he pleads, his voice soft and filled with love.
“Fine,” I concede, hugging him back.
The back door into the kitchen suddenly slams open, and Prek and Marx barrel in, quickly shutting it behind them. They’re breathing hard and look ruffled as hell. A scratching sound starts at the door, and Marx flinches and moves further away. Tad and I separate, and it’s as though the last dregs of my energy go with him when he does. Rogan moves in closer, a mug of delicious coffee gripped in one hand.
“Come on, let’s get you to bed,” he encourages, and right in that moment, those seven words might be my favorite sentence ever.
11
Isit up with a gasp, my chest and throat tight. Sweat collects on my brow, and my pajama top clings to my damp back. The air around me feels heavy and thick, and I try to figure out why I just woke up like I was under attack. The room is dark and quiet aside from Rogan’s deep, even breaths. My heart hammers in my chest, and I do my best to calm it down before the anxiety racing through my veins wakes him up.
I scan Rogan’s room slowly, looking for anything out of place or alarming. I snort quietly at myself—this is the first time I’ve ever been in his room, so how would I even know? The throw blanket on the large gray reading chair is still in the same place, I think. The large potted plant in the corner looks the same. I look back down at Rogan for a beat, letting the cadence of his smooth sleep-filled breaths ground me.
I push out of the bed slowly, pausing as his hand falls away from my hip. I watch his face, hoping my movement doesn’t wake him up. He looked wrecked when we finally climbed into bed, and I know he needs to sleep and recharge as much as I do. Too bad my brain wants to wake me up in a panic for no reason at all.
Maybe I had a nightmare, I think as I sneak into the bathroom for a quick pitstop. I don’t recall dreaming about anything though. Rubbing at the scar on my chest, I roll my neck to relieve the tension sitting in my shoulders. I stare at my reflection in the mirror while quietly drying my hands. No parts of me have zombified and started to fall off. I turn around and check my backside to be sure. Everything is accounted for, although I wouldn’t have been mad if I had died and come back with perkier boobs, just sayin’.
I tiptoe back into the room and stare at the bed, suddenly no longer tired. I know if I lie back down, I’m just going to toss and turn, and I really don’t want to fuck with Rogan’s rest. He looks so damn peaceful and serene right now. I want to touch him, see if that tranquility will transfer over, but I don’t want to risk waking him up.
I grab a hoodie that’s slung over the back of the reading chair and sneak out of Rogan’s room as quietly as I can. Pulling the sweatshirt on, I discover that I’m swimming in it, exactly like I love. It falls to mid-thigh like I’m wearing a dress, and it smells like Rogan. Yep, I’m officially confiscating this on a permanent basis.
Yummy smelling softness, welcome to my wardrobe.
I try to be quiet as I sneak into the kitchen and make a cup of tea. The kiss of night all around me is oddly comforting, and the stars are particularly breathtaking out here with less light pollution to get in the way of their shine. Crickets sing songs to me while I stare at the timer on the microwave as it counts down a warning before it will beep obnoxiously and threaten to wake up the house.
Something twines itself in my legs, and I look down to find Gibson going all catlike against my ankles. I try not to go stiff, but old habits are hard as fuck to break. I know he can’t spray me, but apparently my body doesn’t get the memo as it shoots adrenaline through my system and tries to convince my brain to make a run for it.
I look up as the timer ticks down to two and open the door to my boiling water. After pulling the massive mug out, I drop two bags of chai into the steamy bowl-sized cup. Gibson is just living his best life around my legs, and I laugh, forcing myself to bend over and show him some love.
“Hey, Pepe Le Pew,” I whisper at him in my most sophisticated French accent. I stroke the two white stripes down his back, the fur coarser than it looks. “What are you up to, little buddy?” I ask as I give him some good chin scratches.
I giggle to myself as I bond with the skunk. He and Hoot are the perfect bait and switch. People will trust the dog over the skunk, and that’s when Hoot will teach them the importance of not judging things solely on their outward appearance. They’re beautiful life lessons wrapped up in furry little packages.
Grabbing my tea, I head out to Rogan’s back porch. I curl up on a cushioned chair, pulling my legs inside the massive sweatshirt and tucking it securely just under my feet. It’s a cool night, and I wonder what winters are like here. The stars twinkle flirtingly down at me, each of them preening and sparkling alook at me. The night is so clear I can see the haze of the milky way, and I tilt my head back and feel the light of the moon on my face. I can practically feel the lunar light reinvigorating me. I thought that was a lycan trait the first time I felt it, but now I know it’s a witch thing too.
I pull in a long rejuvenating breath and then reach for my tea. I open my eyes and then promptly notice the person sitting a couple chairs away, their body draped in shadows. An alarmed squeal spills out of my lips, and fear rockets through me. I immediately tamp it down when Elon leans forward so that the moonlight can reveal his face.
“Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to scare you by saying hi when you first came out, and then you just looked so content.”
“Motherfuck,” I grumble as I press a hand to my chest and try to calm my breathing.
I stare back at the house, willing my reaction not to wake up Rogan, and breathe a sigh of relief when I still feel him fast asleep.
“What are you doing out here?” I ask Elon, cringing at my tone when it comes out more accusatory than I intend.
He smiles and leans back into the shadows. “Probably the same thing you are,” he declares, and I snort out a laugh and then relax back into the very comfy chair.
“Nightmares?” I question and then take a large slurp of my very hot tea.
Elon snorts. “Sometimes,” he confesses on a tired sigh. “Mostly, I just wake up feeling restless and uneasy. It’s like something’s telling me I’m not safe, but I can’t figure out from what.”
I nod my understanding, fitting his words with what just happened to me. We both go quiet in contemplation. I cradle my cup and run my gaze around Rogan’s property in thought. He has a large backyard, with an extensive garden to the right and dense trees bordering the well-kept grass. I wonder how long it takes to mow back here. Ooh, does Rogan mow shirtless, because I could get on board with Sundays spent sipping on lemonade and ogling. I shake away that thought and focus.
