And the ache of it nearly unmakes me.
Iris continues to flap a hand around like she’s announcing a fashion show. “Be grateful, Rowan. That muumuu is vintage—prime date-night material. I wore it once when the butcher and I got frisky behind the deli counter. You could do worse.”
Rowan’s mortified groan rattles through the trees. “I should have just taken the stupid shirt.”
Archie chitters. “You’ll look fabulous. Like a deranged couch cover, but fabulous.” He presses his nose to the fabric. “And it smells freshly washed at least.”
“Like that’s helpful,” she deadpans.
Rowan doesn’t emerge right away. The bush rustles like she’s wrestling with a demon and not a dress. Then, with a dramatic sigh that could rival Iris’s theatrics, she steps out.
The muumuu drowns her. Bright pink fabric with white polka dots swallow her frame, the hem dragging across the dirt like she’s wearing grandma’s curtains. The neckline slips off one shoulder, and she keeps tugging at it like it might magically transform into jeans and a sweatshirt.
“Ta-da,” she deadpans. “Rowan Prescott: the not-human, hybrid abomination, and walking fashion disaster.”
Archie snickers as he scurries upward to take his place around her neck. “I told you. Fabulous.”
Liz tries, but she’s just as hopeless. Her shoulders shake, hand clamped over her mouth, until the sound that escapes is half-snort, half-wheeze. Even Elias, quiet as a damn ghost in the background, clears his throat like he’s choking on laughter.
I should say something reassuring. Anything to soften the humiliation etched across Rowan’s face. Instead, the only words that come out are, “It suits you.”
Her glare could fell kingdoms. “Oh, shut your mouth.” She crosses her arms, whichonly puffs the muumuu more, the pink fabric ballooning like a circus tent.
My wolf howls with laughter in my mind, no help at all. I school my face and step closer, my voice pitched low so only she can hear. “For what it’s worth, my wolf still wants you—this way or any other.”
Her cheeks flame, and her eyes spark with fire. She doesn’t back down, not from me, not from this. And gods help me, that only makes me want her more.
“Let’s get you inside,” I mutter before Iris decides to accessorize her granddaughter’s humiliation. “You’ve had enough of an audience tonight.”
Rowan scoffs but doesn’t argue. She stalks ahead, head high, every inch of her wrapped in pink polyester pride. And still, somehow, she makes even that look powerful.
Rowan is halfway to the door when Iris finally pipes up, voice bright as sunshine and twice as unhelpful.
“Wait! That muumuu would look much better with a belt. Oh, my fanny pack. Yes, that’s what you need to feel more comfortable. No woman should be without their emergency supply.”
Rowan stops dead in her tracks, her entire body going rigid. Slowly, she turns her head, eyes narrowed to slits. “If you come anywhere near me with a fanny pack, Iris, so help me?—”
Archie chortles from her shoulder. “I vote fringe.”
“Traitor,” Rowan mutters, clutching the muumuu tighter as she storms inside, dignity dangling by a thread.
Iris, unfazed, pats Liz’s arm with a sage nod. “Markmy words. One day, she’ll thank me for my fashion sense.”
While the dress was an entertaining touch, nothing else Iris has to say means anything to me. I turn away from her, intent on going to check the property perimeter before I head back inside. This might have been a much-needed moment, but I haven’t forgotten the danger that’s likely coming closer the longer we’re here.
Elias steps into my path, his eyes darkened. “We need to talk.”
Of course we do.
Chapter 17
ROWAN
Istorm into NightShade like a pink polka-dotted hurricane, the muumuu swishing around my ankles with all the grace of a cursed shower curtain. My dignity trails somewhere behind me, probably bleeding out on the front steps.
Archie clings to my shoulder, snickering in my ear like the evil spawn he is. “I stand by what I said—you look fabulous. Terrifying, but fabulous.”
“Keep it up,” I murmur, clutching fistfuls of fabric so I don’t trip over the monstrosity. “I’ll make a ferret scarf out of you. Maybe I’ll even make youvintagefirst, to match the ‘deranged couch cover’ vibe.”
