Page 28 of Moonlit Nights & Northern Lights
I turned to Rory, who blinked owlishly at us both.
“Your tab?” I prompted.
His face lit up. “Oops!” He patted his pockets before producing a battered wallet. “Got it right—”
The wallet slipped from his fingers, contents spilling across the sticky floor. I closed my eyes briefly, summoning patience.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, staggering as he bent down.
“Don’t.” I collected the scattered cards, receipts, and Chinese takeaway fortunes, locating his bank card and tapping it against the machine.
The machine beeped. PAYMENT DECLINED.
Of fucking course.
“One minute, I’ll just move some money around,” Rory slurred, fumbling for his phone. He jabbed at the black screen repeatedly.
“It’s dead,” he announced, turning to me with wide, helpless eyes and parted lips.
The look was nothing short of pathetic—part puppy dog, part genuine distress.
“Unbelievable,” I muttered, already reaching for my wallet. I’d be damned if I’d admit how quickly I’d capitulated to that look.
I stared at the total, my stomach dropping.
“You’re paying me back,” I said, pocketing the receipt. “Every. Single. Penny.”
Rory grinned up at me with that infuriating smile that made his eyes crinkle. “Do you accept interpretive dance as payment? I’ve been told my moonlit wolf ballet is quite moving.”
I didn’t respond, pushing him toward the stairs.
Rory stumbled on the first step. I lunged forward, catching him before he tumbled, wrapping my arm around his waist and half carrying him up.
“I can walk,” he protested, leaning heavily against me.
“Evidence suggests otherwise.”
We reached the main floor where Marley sat focused on their ledger, not looking up as we left.
When the cool night air hit us, Rory immediately tensed, breaking away to wrap his arms around himself, shoulders hunched as he shivered violently.
It suddenly hit me that he’d lost his shirt. All he had on was that absurd mesh top that left more skin exposed than it covered. The sight of him standing there, hugging himself in the harsh streetlight, looking suddenly cold and sad, stirred something uncomfortable inside me.
Without thinking, I shrugged off my own shirt before holding it out to him.
Rory simply stared at me, then at the shirt, as if he couldn’t quite process what was happening. His eyes, still drunk-glazed, widened slightly. It almost looked like he might cry.
“Take it,” I snapped, heat rising to my face. Weren’t shifters supposed to run hot? “Before I change my mind.”
He reached out hesitantly, fingers brushing against mine as he took the shirt. Instead of putting his arms through the sleeves, he wrapped it around himself like a blanket, clutching the fabric at his throat.
My dress shirt swallowed him whole, the crisp blue material draping over his slender frame. Something about the strange sight—Rory Thorne wrapped in my clothing—made my throat go dry. The fabric hung off one shoulder, revealing a pale collarbone and the curve of his neck.
Swallowing hard, I looked away.What the hell?My migraines had always had quirky side effects, but this really took the biscuit.
I stormed off toward the car, silently praying Rory could follow without support. Behind me, I heard his uneven footsteps, occasionallypunctuated by a muffled curse as he stumbled. I forced myself not to look back.
We reached his sorry excuse for a car. Rory fumbled in his pockets, producing his set of keys with a triumphant, “Aha!”
