Page 62 of An Espresso Machine’s Guide to Love & Mischief

I project my thoughts at McKay. You really need to work out your core. I didn’t use to either, until this one time I had to scale the outside of a fort and couldn’t do it. Core strength is everything.

Forget about my core. You can’t go in there!

I ignore her warning and push open the kitchen’s swinging door.

Chapter 29

Asgard

“You fucking shot me!” I shout at the purple-haired monster—though it sounds like chittering since I’m stuck in raccoon form. It was a lucky break that she only used a sedative and not poison.

She’s also a lot more attractive than I remember. I want to run my paws through her long hair and lick her lips. I wonder what she tastes like.

That dart must have given me fucking Stockholm Syndrome.

I take her in, hoodie and all. I’ve known plenty of agents who’d use a disguise to seem like less of a threat. If I hadn’t been so distracted with the need to rescue my mate, I’d have seen past her baggy hoodie and colored hair.

I look at her again now. She staggers across the kitchen toward me. Fuck, is she wasted? Maybe she did shots to celebrate taking me down and trapping me in this goddamn metal cage.

She’s got me locked up like a fucking animal.

“I’m going to make you pay for what you’ve done,” I shout—in raccoon form, so she doesn’t even hear the threat. I try to shift, but whatever the fuck this cage is made of, it’s solid and there’s no room for me to take my human form. Which means I’m stuck as a raccoon until she lets me out.

“Don’t worry, little guy, I’m going to get you out of there,” she says, as if she’s reading my mind.

I gape at her. This has to be some sort of trap. Why would she shoot me only to let me go?

But she stares at the lock for several seconds, then goes to look through the kitchen drawers, her arms shaking and missing the drawers half the time.

Yep, she’s drunk.

Even so, it’s way more likely she’s grabbing a knife to finish the job than to let me out, but she returns with a paperclip instead.

“I learned to pick locks when I joined a gang of jewel thieves. Had to leave them after they targeted my parents’ mansion, though.”

That shit has to be made up.

But she certainly thinks she can pick locks, because she squats in front of my cage and inserts the unfolded paperclip into the lock.

“Don’t do this!” she suddenly cries. “You can’t stop me!”

What the actual fuck?

The lock clicks—okay, so she’s good at lock-picking after all.

I don’t wait to find out what she has planned for me. The moment she opens the cage door I leap out, shift in mid-air, and tackle her to the ground.

“What are you doing? That hurts,” she shrieks.

But it only hurts her. Lucky for me, the dart knocked me out for half the day—more than enough time for my wound to heal.

I raise my fist to punch her in the head and knock her out cold, but she stares up at me with wide, scared eyes, and a sudden pang in my gut stops me.

I don’t want to hurt her, which solidifies my Stockholm Syndrome dart theory. I’m sure some witch came up with a potion to make me feel whatever bullshit emotions seem to draw me to the purple-haired bitch.

“Get off me!” she demands in a haughty tone like she expects me to do her bidding.

Well, that Stockholm Syndrome potion won’t work on me. I pull my fist back.