A laugh shook through him, and heat rose in her cheeks as she realized what she’d said. “Fair point.”
His fingers brushed her cheekbone. She leaned into it.
“Eleven days,” she said.
“I can count.”
“Can you?” She searched his face. “Because sometimes I think you’ve forgotten this has an expiration date.”
“Have you?”
Before she could answer, he kissed her again. Softer this time, slower, like he was savoring her, storing the taste away for later. When he pulled back, his eyes were dark.
“That’s the last one,” he said.
“Right. Absolutely the last.”
They stood there against the wall, close enough that her hand on his chest registered the unsteady rise and fall of his breathing, close enough that she could see a faint scar at his temple she’d never noticed before. Neither of them moved away.
“Eleven days,” Marcus said.
“Ten now.”
“Ten days until this is over.”
“Until I testify and we go back to our lives.”
“Right. Back to normal.”
She ducked under his arm and walked to the kitchen, legs unsteady beneath her. The cool tile under her bare feet helped.So did the familiar motion of pulling a pot from the cabinet, filling it with water, setting it on the stove.
Her laptop was still open on the counter where she’d left it that morning, the Chase app still glowing its accusatory blue. But a new email notification had popped up while she’d been busy getting kissed against walls. The Vermont hedge witch collective had already replied.
Ms. Wickwood — We know who you are. We know what’s happening in Willowbrook. The Council seized a shipment of ours last month too. We think they’re expanding beyond your territory. Call us.
The number had a 802 area code. Hazel stared at it, the heat still fading from her skin, her brain struggling to shift gears from Marcus’s mouth to supply chain logistics. If the Shadow Council was going after suppliers in other states, this wasn’t just about silencing one witness. This was bigger.
She screenshot the email and closed the laptop. That conversation could wait until her hands stopped shaking — and until she figured out whether the shaking was from the kiss or the implications of what she’d just read.
Normal things. Safe things.
“I’m making dinner,” she called over her shoulder.
“Hazel…”
“Pasta again. Hope you don’t mind.”
She heard him sigh, listened to his footsteps as he followed her. When she glanced back, he was leaning against the door frame, watching her with an expression she couldn’t read. His shirt was untucked where she’d grabbed it. His hair was mussed. He looked like a man who’d just been thoroughly kissed against a wall, and she had to look away before she did something stupid like cross the kitchen and kiss him again.
“For the record,” he said, “I don’t believe you either.”
“About what?”
“That being the last kiss.”
She turned back to the stove.
“It has to be.”
