Page 41 of Trick Me
“Three. Well, two and a half. The half was accidental. I was trying to find someone’s missing cat.”
His lips twitch. “Let me guess. Ghost cat?”
“No, living cat. Mr. Mittens. The ghost was the murder victim. Turns out Mr. Mittens witnessed the whole thing and led me straight to the body.”
“Mr. Mittens and Mr. Whiskers,” he says, eyes gleaming. “You’ve got a theme.”
“I didn’t name them!”
He leans in, voice dropping. “Sure you didn’t.”
A laugh slips out before I can stop it. I shake my head and knock back more of the drink. It’s strong. Fruity with a sharp bite. Like him.
His expression shifts. “How do you make them stop? The ghosts. They’re always talking. Whispering.”
“You learn to tune them out,” I say. “Like background noise.”
I set my drink down and reach for his hand. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t hesitate. Just watches me with steady curiosity as I spread his fingers wide.
“Feel that?” I ask. “That buzz in the air? Cold and electric and hungry?”
He nods.
“Now imagine a wall. Not solid. More like mesh. A filter. It lets you know they’re there without letting them in.”
His eyes darken with focus. Slowly, the air around us stills. The pressure fades, just enough.
“That’s better,” he says. “They’re still there, but quieter.”
“It takes practice.” I let go of his hand, but his fingers linger against mine. “The wolf is the same, right? Always there, but you control when it surfaces?”
“Usually,” he says. His gaze drops, slowly dragging over me, from the fall of my hair to the bare skin of my thigh in the slit that goes all the way up to just below my bikini line. “It’s impossible to think around you, you know that?”
My breath catches.
He leans in more and takes a deep inhale.
I don’t move. I don’t breathe. The silence between us grows taut and trembling.
“That’s you drawn to your wolf talking.”
His eyes meet mine. “Is it?”
God help me, I don’t know.
A nearby clock chimes. We both turn.
“It’s almost three,” he says, and I had no idea time had passed so quickly.
I nod but don’t look away from him. “Time to check the mirrors.”
He straightens, but not before brushing his fingers against my knee. Not quite an accident. Not quite innocent.
He holds out his hand. I take it.
And we step into the crowd.
We make our way back to the alcove with the mostmirrors. The music has shifted to something almost mournful, and there are still lots of people at the party.
