“Right, well, come inside then. Let’s see what we’ve got brewin’ in you, queenie. But first, I wanna work on that sweet little thing sittin’ in your car,” he growls.
“And Ezra, I don’t know what the fuck is going on with your shadows but leash those nosey little bastards before stepping foot in my house. Bleedin’ thread magic,” Iain grumbles, turning on his heels and marching toward his house.
The eddies go still, insulted to their inky little cores.
Eddy #2 flickers at the edge of Ezra’s jaw, feigning innocence.
Eddy #10, the vibe-checker, slithers along his knuckles, calculating just how hard Ezra could punch Iain.
And eddy #6—the one we should probably muzzle—takes its sweet time forming the unmistakable shape of a middle finger before sinking back into Ezra’s skin like smoke.
Yes, I’ve identified ten distinct personalities. No, I don’t need help. Unless it’s to rank them by murder potential and sexual prowess—which, if I’m honest, operate on the same scale.
“I’ll be waitin’, wee hound,” Iain calls over his shoulder to Louie, who is furiously pretending to ignore him.
Ezra takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and the eddies sink into his skin.
Well, most of them.
A single tendril lashes out at the last second, petulant as hell, before Ezra yanks it back with a sharp breath.
It’s the emotional equivalent of a parent dragging a screaming child out of Target.
So, hecancontrol them. Good to know.
I’ll file that away for later.
Right now, I’ve got bigger questions.
He shudders, then grabs my hand and brushes my knuckles with his lips.
“Are you well, Aurora?” he asks with a smirk.
“All is well, Ezra. You saw that too, right? It wasn’t just me?” I whisper as we walk toward the front door.
Louie follows at a distance, growling and mumbling about the “pompous, piece of shit wrakh.”
Ezra laughs softly, the sound soaked in wicked delight. “Yes, darling, I noticed the eye-fucking. A wrakh and a hellhound. That kind of chemistry levels cities.”
He leans in just a little. “Can you imagine the destruction? Walls cracking. Floors breaking. Her claws in his chest while he begs for more.”
He smirks, utterly pleased with himself. “I do hope it happens. They deserve that kind of violence.”
Ezra’s observation makes me giggle as we walk through the front door.
Iain’s house is stuffy, cluttered, and smoky from the incense that seems to burn everywhere.
There’s music playing softly over invisible speakers, and I smile when I recognize “T.B.D.” by Live. This song is sexy as hell—a slow burn to explosion, drowned in a crescendo of shadow and sound. You can almostfeelit—hips pinned, breath stolen, heat ghosting your throat, the moment straining at the edge, begging for the drop.
Say what you want about Iain, but the asshole has impeccable taste in music.
“You’re smiling, Aurora. What am I missing?” Ezra asks while we step over piles of porn andHighlights.
Yes, the magazine for kids. There are no words.
“Throwing Copperis a phenomenal album,” I say to a very confused Ezra.
“That’s fucking right, little blackbird,” Iain boasts.
