Page 129 of A Witchy Spell Ride
“Night,” I said softly, because sometimes the most dangerous thing is a gentle voice.
Reaper didn’t blink. He never startles. His gaze flicked from me to the hallway behind me, cataloged my borrowed shirt and the glitter I hadn’t washed off my mouth and the afterglow like he was making sure I was whole. Then he tipped his glass in a nod.
Briar just smirked. That particular smirk, sparks and trouble and an apology she has no intention of giving.
“Hydration,” she said solemnly, picking up a bottle and tossing it underhand. I snatched it one-handed, cold biting my palm.
“Do I need to worry about you two redecorating at two a.m.?” I asked, twisting the cap.
“Only your expectations,” Briar said sweetly.
Reaper’s mouth didn’t move. His eyes did.
I took a long drink and let the water settle the last leftover tremors. Adrenaline leaves a glitter hangover too. I’d learned that the hard way. Tonight, the crash tasted different. Cleaner. Not empty.
“Tomorrow I’m opening the shop,” I said, because the future is a muscle and I was ready to use it. “Sage at the door. Roses in the window. Not as warnings.”
“As trophies,” Briar agreed, eyes hot. “Want me to hex the petty out of the tourists while I’m there?”
“Leave them a little petty,” I said. “It’s good for the economy.”
Reaper’s glass clicked softly against the counter. Approval. Or amusement. With him, the same thing. “Security?”
“Upgraded,” I replied, taking perverse joy in the fact that I could use Cross’s favorite word in a sentence that was about my life, not a file. “Cameras on the back hall. Wards under the sill. And a very large man who can glower for hours if properly caffeinated.”
“Ghost,” Reaper said flatly.
“Obviously,” I said. “You’ll get him back. Sometimes.”
Reaper made a sound like a laugh swallowed by a church. Briar bumped his shoulder with hers, careless, casual, intentional. “Relax, big brother,” she said. “We’ll share.”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The danger there wasn’t an explosion. It was a slow burn. And I was okay with matches in the house. We’re responsible arsonists here.
I padded back down the hall and paused in the doorway to our room. Ghost was sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, my torn dress folded in his hands like something sacred he was deciding whether to keep or turn into rags. He lifted his head and that look hit me, hunger softened by awe, want tempered by respect. It never gets old. It never will.
“Kitchen gossip?” he asked.
“Briar and your boss playing chicken with gravity,” I said.
He huffed. “Saw that coming the day she called him sir and didn’t mean it.”
I crawled into his lap because that’s where the world fits right and pressed the cold-water bottle to the back of his neck. He swore and tried not to smile. I kissed the swear off his mouth.
“You, okay?” he asked, thumb tracing the groove the nylon had left at my wrist.
“I’m perfect,” I said. Honesty tastes better than anything. “I saw myself.”
“In the mirror,” he said, and that wasn’t a question.
“In the mirror,” I said. “And in your face.”
He exhaled like he’d been holding something heavy and finally got to set it down. He tucked the dress into a drawer, not as a relic. As a material thing that can be re-sewn or thrown away when I decide.
“Tomorrow,” he said, voice low, “we go to the shop. We open the door. We don’t flinch.”
“And we buy donuts for Church,” I added, because humor keeps me from floating out of my own skin. “Apparently Enforcers provide carbs.”
He looked at me like he’d eat the world if I asked. “I’ll buy out the case.”
