Page 29 of Moonlit Nights & Northern Lights
I snatched them before he could even attempt to unlock the car himself. He laughed, shuffling to the passenger side. We slid in, and he immediately clicked his seatbelt with surprising dexterity.
“Hold that broken door of yours,” I instructed as I turned the key in the ignition.
I pulled away from the kerb. With one hand on the wheel, I wiggled a well-deserved cigarette and my lighter out of my pocket.
“Ugh, you smoke? That’s disgusting,” Rory wrinkled his nose dramatically as I lit up.
“If you don’t like it, you’re welcome to walk home,” I replied, taking a deep drag. The nicotine hit my system, blunting the edge of my headache. I cracked the window, letting the smoke trail out into the night.
“Actually, this is helpful,” Rory mumbled, slumping in his seat. “Makes it easier.”
“What?”
…every time I find him hot, I can just remember this fucking grim smell…
I stared at Rory, my mind reeling. Had I just heard his thoughts correctly? He actually thought I was…hot?
The concept was so absurd I almost laughed out loud. Even before the whole “arresting him on a full moon” thing, Rory Thorne had made it abundantly clear from the moment we met that he despised me. Every interaction was laced with scorn, every look dripping with contempt. And yet…
Well, someonecouldhate another person and still find them attractive. Those weren’t mutually exclusive feelings.
Rory started coughing dramatically, waving his hand in front of his face to disperse the smoke.
“Stop being childish,” I muttered, taking another drag. “If you’re old enough to get blackout drunk at a supernatural nightclub, you’re old enough to handle a bit of cigarette smoke.”
“It’s not—” He coughed again, this time sounding less theatrical and more genuinely distressed. “It’s not childish. It’s a wolf thing. Wolf senses. Can’t—”Cough.“Can’t stand it.”
I glanced over at him. His face had taken on a greenish tinge, and his forehead gleamed with sweat despite the cool night air flowing through the cracked window.
“Stop the car!” he suddenly shouted, doubling over in the passenger seat. “Stop the fucking car!”
I swerved to the kerb, narrowly avoiding a parked motorcycle. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I muttered, throwing my half-smoked cigarette out the window. The second one half wasted tonight.
I’d barely pulled over when Rory fumbled with his door, pushing it open and practically falling onto the pavement. The retching sounds that followed were unmistakable—deep, guttural heaves that ended in splatter against the concrete.
I closed my eyes, leaning my head back against the headrest. The night just kept getting better and better.
…oh god, he’s watching me puke my guts out, this is so fucking mortifying…
I grabbed a vaguely clean napkin from the glove compartment and stepped out of the car, walking around to where Rory was still hunched over, retching miserably on the pavement. His slender frame shook with each heave, and something uncomfortably close to guilt twisted in my gut. It probably hadn’t been the most polite thing, to light a cigarette in his car without asking.
“Here,” I said, holding out the tissue when he finally straightened slightly.
He took it without looking at me, wiping his mouth. “Thanks,” he mumbled, voice raspy.
I opened the back door to be greeted by a chaotic junkyard—clothes strewn everywhere, random paperwork, and what appeared to be a half-eaten sandwich growing sentient life. I eventually located a water bottle.
Rory was leaning against the car when I stood up, looking pale and miserable.
“Small sips,” I instructed, briefly touching his back as he took the bottle.
He nodded weakly, following my advice with uncharacteristic obedience. While he drank, I glanced at the map on my phone.
“Look, your flat is almost an hour away, and mine is fifteen minutes,” I said, the throbbing behind my eyes intensifying. The thought of driving across London with a drunk, possibly still-nauseated werewolf while fighting a migraine was unbearable.
Rory moaned in response, leaning his head against the cool metal of the car.
I hesitated, considering my options. Kit would probably murder me if I brought Rory home in this state. But I could text him something vague—just enough to let him know Rory was safe without inviting his wrath.
