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She’s still holding Serena's hand.

“And Serena is my⁠—”

Colleague.

Friend.

Woman I somehow ended up investigating a murder with.

All excellent options.

All technically true.

The woman I'm fucking and may be catastrophically in love with is, unfortunately, the only one my brain supplies.

“Consultant,” I finish.

Serena's eyebrows go up.

My mother notices. Of course she notices. “Oh, honey.”

I watch the pieces click together behind her eyes—the hesitation, my spectacularly bad attempt at consultant, the way Serena looked at me when I said it.

She knows.

Maybe not knows knows. She doesn't know I've had Serena naked in this room. She doesn't know I'm approximately one meaningful conversation away from developing a five-year plan.

But she knows.

She releases Serena's hand only to touch two fingers lightly to the inside of her wrist.

Faun shifts in Serena’s arms, nosing curiously toward my mother’s hand.

Serena looks down. “What are you doing?”

“Your energy is fascinating.”

Serena looks genuinely interested. “What does that mean?”

My mother closes her eyes. “You're very contained,” she says after a few seconds. “But not calm. People confuse those things. And you don't like people knowing things about you unless you've decided they can know them.”

Serena is seemingly bewildered. “Do you have formal training in behavioral analysis?”

“No, darling. Clairsentience.”

Serena nods slowly. “Interesting.”

My mother’s attention drops to Serena's tattooed arms. “And these are beautiful. Bones and flowers. Death and life together.” She looks at me with an expression of such profound maternal vindication that I want to throw myself through the window. “Baryn.”

“Don't say my name like that.” I point a warning finger at her.

Her eyebrows lift. “Like what?”

“Like you've just received confirmation from the universe.”

She presses a hand to her chest, all innocence. “I haven't.”

She turns back to Serena. “I have.”