Page 66 of The Monsters We Are

Delilah’s back straightened. “Excuse me, I did a very good job.”

“You did ahackjob.”

A huff. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“It looked like someone went at my hair with hedge cutters. In a panic. While blindfolded. And shaking like a shitting dog.”

“You’re exaggerating. Xavier, tell her she’s exaggerating.”

Wynter folded her arms. “You think the word of a habitual liar will honestly add weight to your claim?”

“Anabel,youback me up on this.”

The blonde frowned. “But then I’d have to lie.”

“And doing that doesn’t make you feel all warm and giddy?” Xavier asked her.

“No,” Anabel told him. “No, you’re alone on that one.”

Snickering, Wynter idly rubbed at her neck. The bite there tingled as her fingers skated over it. She wasn’t sure what the tingling was about, but it appeared to be a permanent thing. As did the bite mark itself. It no longer bled, but it hadn’t healed. It was still as prominent as it had been on the night Cain’s monster bit her. So she hadn’t been able to escape questions from her coven.

Wynter had talkedaroundthe subject, telling them only that it had bitten her during sex because it was all wound up after she’d been kidnapped. She didn’t mention the whole “binding” thing. Cain had asked her not to reveal to anyone that his kind could tie their life-force to that of another. For him, the less people knew about the Ancients, the better.

His creature hadn’t again surfaced in the bedroom, but she’d occasionally noticed something move behind Cain’s eyes while he took her; she knew it was his monster. Knew it wanted to make its presence known to her.

“Right, I’m done.” Delilah removed her gloves and tossed all her gardening tools into her basket, adding the rolled-up kneeling mat just before she stood. “Let me wash my hands and then we can go.”

“You might also want to wash your nose.” Wynter pointed at it. “You got some soil there.”

“Why would someone want to eat hair pie?” Hattie asked no one in particular.

Delilah made a choking sound. “What?”

Hattie tipped her chin toward her book. “A man here said he’s going to go home, find his wife, and eat some hair pie. I’ve never heard of it before.” She tapped her chin. “I wonder if it’s some sort of strange exotic delicacy.”

Oh, dear God.

“It could be,” said Anabel, tipping over the hammock when a silently laughing Xavier seemed about to answer the old woman’s question.

He hit the ground with a thud. “Ow.”

“I fail to see the appeal in a lot of those delicacies,” Hattie went on, prim. “Especially fried tarantulas and bird’s nest soup. Very not my thing.”

Anabel sidled up to Wynter. “Just this one time, let her believe her own assumption,” she said, her voice low.

Having absolutely no desire to explain to an old woman that eating hair pie was slang for oral sex, Wynter shrugged at the blonde and whispered, “Fine.”

Shortly afterwards, they made their way to one of the city towers and used its elevator to ascend to the town’s manor. Outside, they walked along the streets en route to the only hair salon at Devil’s Cradle, which was run by lion shifters.

It was cooler up here than in the city. The hue of the sun was now a deep gold as it began to set. The sky was a swirl of pretty colors—mostly purples, oranges, and pinks. Silhouette shadows stretched along the ground like dark fingers.

“It might not be so easy to get an appointment,” Delilah warned her.

Wynter gave a slight shrug. “I don’t mind pre-booking one.”

“I don’t mean I think they’ll be too busy to fit you in, I mean that there’s a chance they won’t want to.”

Dodging one of the many sapling trees on the sidewalk, Wynter frowned. “And why wouldn’t they want to?”

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