Ramona’s throat tightened. “Sure,” she said with an unfortunate lack of eloquence.
Zara’s eyes closed. For a long time, neither of them moved. Ramona could feel Zara’s pulse through the grip on her wrist — still racing at first, then gradually slowing. Could feel the exact moment Zara’s body started to relax, inch by inch, into something that might eventually become sleep.
Outside, the fox remained at its post.
Inside, Ramona lay very still, her arm held across Zara’s chest like an anchor, and watched the demon beside her finally let her guard down.
Neither of them mentioned it when they woke up hours later, tangled together, Zara’s face buried against Ramona’s shoulder and Ramona’s other hand somehow wound in Zara’s hair.
Neither of them mentioned that the fox was still there, asleep on the fire escape.
Neither of them mentioned that Zara had been crying in her sleep — silent tears that had soaked into Ramona’s T-shirt.
But when Zara finally pulled away, sitting up and running her hands through her disheveled hair, and Ramona said“Good morning” like nothing had happened, Zara looked at her with something that might have been gratitude for only a moment before her expression settled back into a familiar bored, assessing look.
“Good morning, Mortal.”
It hit Ramona then, that if she’d felt every knife-slice of terror of Zara’s nightmare because of the tether, that Zara had probably also felt every moment of the explicit dreams she’d been having almost every night, too.
Oh no.
Oh no.
Her face went hot. Then hotter. Those dreams — the ones where Zara pushed her against the bookshelf wall, the ones in her childhood bedroom, the particularly vivid one from two nights ago involving a desk and significantly fewer clothes…
Zara had felt all of it.
Her cheeks flushed, and she sat up abruptly, desperate for a little distance between them.
“What’s wrong?” Zara asked, standing and stretching. Her button-up pulled up over her stomach, revealing a delicious peek of skin. She caught Ramona staring and her mouth curved — knowing.
Ramona made a strangled sound, then cleared her throat. “I’m going to go take a shower.” She stood and hurried toward the door, practically fleeing.
“Take your time,” Zara called after her, and there was definite amusement in her voice now. “Have a nice shower, Mortal.”
Ramona fled. She swore she could hear a low, knowing chuckle as the door clicked shut behind her.
CHAPTER NINE
The drive upto Greenbriar Manor was lined with arching, ancient oak trees that formed a tunnel with their branches. In the spring and summer, they turned into a verdant canopy, and in the fall, oranges and yellows and reds greeted guests. Today, gnarled branches reached toward the car like outstretched claws. The effect was as unsettling as the manor that loomed far down the drive. The residence stood like a brick fortress, a horseshoe driveway in front leading straight to a staircase up to the massive and intricately carved front door. What the manor lacked in frill, it made up for in size. Though they’d only been a family of four, the Greenbriars also had a house manager and a cook, which left nearly fifteen more empty bedrooms.
Zara whistled, craning her head to see out the car window. “This is where you grew up?”
Ramona nodded, a lump forming in her throat, constricting her ability to speak.
“This kind of privilege usually makes people monsters. You should bewaybitchier,” Zara commented.
“Ah, the demon has jokes,” Ramona said, putting the car in park near the old carriage house. The fact that the car had madeit was a bit surprising, but she’d have rather ridden a bicycle all the way here than be crammed in a car with Iris and Zara. Just the thought of them at the dining table together was enough to make her palms feel sweaty again.
“No need to be nervous,” Zara said. “I can burn down the house at any moment.”
Ramona huffed a small laugh despite her growing unease, glancing sideways at Zara. “I want them tonotknow you’re a demon, preferably. Remember?—”
Zara rolled her eyes, holding up her fingers as if using them to count the rules. “No stealing anyone’s souls, no entering into any bargains that are solely for my own gain, no corporate-speak, and I’m… not a demon. I am from Londoven.”
“Okay, but make it believable,” Ramona said. “No one says ‘I am from Londoven.’ You’re not a robot.”
“Why can’t I be Rushen? I could do such a good Rushen accent,” Zara said, smoothing the lapels of her jacket. “You know, I’m actually fluent.”
