“One more bite.” I bring the spoon to her mouth.
She accepts it, swallows, then yawns and slumps against the table, eyelids drooping. “Thanks, Chiefy.”
“Anytime.” I tuck a stray lock of her dark hair behind her ear before I can stop myself. My hand lingers over the teeth marks on her neck, and my blood boils beneath my skin. “Who did this to you?”
“What?” Her eyes widen. Her body stills as I curl my fingers around her neck and rub my thumb over the bite mark there.
“This bite mark.” My thumb rubs over it again, wishing I could mark her with my own teeth, lips and more.
She giggles. “That’s makeup, silly.”
I rub it again, smearing the red marks on her skin.
Her head lolls towards my hand, like a cat seeking warmth. “You smell nice.”
Her tiara falls onto the table, jolting me from the trance where I’m still gently caressing her neck.
I grit my teeth and stand abruptly. “Come on. Let’s get you home before you fall asleep right here in the kitchen.”
Outside, the autumn air bites cold. Woodsmoke and cider hang in the air. Sera shivers beside me, goose bumps rising on her bare arms, her tiara dangling from her finger as we walk by a row of jack-o’-lanterns all eyeing me with sinister grins.
“Cold?” I ask, already shrugging out of my jacket as the fog rolls in off the harbour.
She shakes her head, though her teeth chatter. “Nope. I’m toasty. You’re just… spinning.”
“You mean you’re spinning.” I drape my jacket over her shoulders anyway, and she hugs it close, drowning in the sleeves. The sight of her wrapped up in something that smells like me shouldn’t do things to my chest. But it does.
Sugar-drunk kids dart by, shrieking like banshees.
We make it as far as the truck before she stops, staring up at the full moon as if she’s seen a ghost, the moonlight catching her red lipstick, her breath visible in the cold air, her tiara glinting like something supernatural.
“Pretty, isn’t it?” she whispers.
“Yeah,” I say, but I’m not looking at the moon.
Her eyes flick to mine. “You always take care of everyone, don’t you, Chiefy?”
I swallow hard. “Comes with the job.”
She steps closer, tilting her head. “Who takes care of you?”
Fuck. The way she says it, as if she wants to be the one to take care of me, and with the mischievous glint in her eye, I get a sense that she doesn’t mean cooking me dinner.
“I manage.” I open the passenger door for her. “Get in before you freeze.”
She clutches the door, leans up on her toes, and plants another kiss on my cheek. “You smell like cedar and salt,” she says with a sleepy grin.
My breath catches. “Sera?—”
“You like me a little,” she interrupts, slurring, half teasing, half truth. “Don’t deny it.”
I rest my hand against the doorframe, trapping her without meaning to. “You’re drunk,” I breathe. “And I’m not that kind of man.”
Her smile falters just a fraction, and it kills me. “What kind of man are you then?”
“The kind who’s going to take you home.”
“And what are you going to do to me when I get home?” She bites down on her plump red lip.
