Page 62 of Wicked Ruin

“I've got her.” Declan is standing on the far side of the car, one hand on the door. He narrows his eyes. “McGovern. You tell anyone about this, and I'll fucking kill you.”

God, why is he so hot?

McGovern clears his throat. “But the trackers, sir⁠—”

“I'll message Cavin myself.”

McGovern takes a seat on the front step, with the long-suffering look of a man who has learned to pick his battles, and I slide into the passenger seat. Every time I do, it feels like sand dropping through an hourglass.

He’s going to be married. My best friend is going to be married. I’m going to watch it happen firsthand, and I will smile because I love him enough to give him that. I know this. I’ve known it for months, but I’m still getting in the car.

“I reckon Cavin knows more than he lets on,” I say.

Declan sighs. “He was the one who told me you hadn't gone to the doctor yet, woman.”

“I did contact him though.”

I shrink in my seat. I did send the message. I just don’t tell him I got an automated response back that Dr. Rosenberg is on holiday for the next week.

I'll go, just not now. Telling Declan might ruin a good man's vacation because he's kind of like that. Absurdly, terrifyingly overprotective.

I have no idea why I asked him to come. This is the worst form of torture. I reach for my necklace, but I forgot it. Nooo. I try not to think of that as an omen.

He squeezes my knee. “Lickety Split?”

“Is there any other?”

I haven't been hungry today. I don't tell him I vomited up breakfast and that lunch was a handful of dry crackers. Even water is making me nauseous, so I'm definitely dehydrated. “I'm feeling really good right now,” I say instead. “Vanilla gelato.”

He looks at me curiously. “No chocolate?”

I wrinkle my nose. “Chocolate sounds terrible right now.”

“You are sick,” he says, shaking his head as he puts his hand to my forehead in a gesture that’s meant to be teasing but is so unintentionally sweet my eyes go a little blurry. He’s right. I hate vanilla.

I’m sure he meant it to tease, but I stifle a flinch I’m glad he doesn’t notice.

He parks, shrugs out of his suit jacket and throws it in the back, unbuttons the top three buttons of his shirt, and sighs—one of those deep, bone-tired sighs that seems to go all the way to his toes.

“Aw, Dec. You look tired. You need this as much as I do. How's Valentina?” I ask, trying to be polite. Trying to be a good friend.

He makes a face. “She doesn't eat mammals, Bridget.”

I blink. “There are loads of vegetarians, Declan. I used to have a friend⁠—”

“No, she's not a vegetarian. It's some poultry thing. Something about ascension. I don't know.” He waves his hand.

“Oh.” I consider this. “She's very pretty though.”

He gives me the look—the one that says, Are you serious right now?—without his mouth having to do any of the work. I hold his gaze.

Because I am serious. It's fine. He can be with a very pretty woman who doesn't eat mammals. That's fine.

“So how are you doing? Other than being—you?”

“Grand. Passing the time. You?”

“Reading a delicious werewolf romance.”