Page 33 of Moonlit Nights & Northern Lights
“It’s looking that way,” he admitted.
My shoulders sagged with relief. I’d spent over a week convinced something terrible had happened to Dev while being convinced everyone else would see me as some pathetic ex who couldn’t let go. Like I was making mountains out of molehills because I was still hopelessly hung up on him.
“Thank fuck,” I breathed, running my hands through my disaster of a bedhead. “Not that he’s been kidnapped—obviously that’s terrible—but that you believe me. That I’m not just beingparanoid.”
Maxwell’s expression softened almost imperceptibly. “The evidence is pointing that way.”
“Okay, so… we’re going to storm the place, right?” I perked up, already picturing myself in full action-hero mode, kicking down doors and rescuing Dev. Maybe he’d finally see me as something more than a chaotic mess who couldn’t keep his shit together.
“No.No, we are not going to ‘storm the place,’” Maxwell said, his voice dripping with that special brand of condescension he surely reserved just for me. “I’m going to go to work, and then I’ll be in contact this afternoon.” He paused, then added pointedly, “Through Seb.”
I glowered at him. Clearly, I’d pissed him off somehow. Probably the whole “getting absolutely smashed while on an investigation, throwing up on the way home and needing to crash at his house, leading to stealing his bed and cuddling him to death” thing. Or maybe it was just my general existence.
“So what, I’m just supposed to sit around twiddling my thumbs while Dev could be in danger?” I demanded, ignoring the throbbing in my temples. “Why can’t I come with you to the station?”
“Because you’re a civilian with no official standing, because you’re probably still drunk after the amount you had last night…” He threw me my car key. “And because I said so.”
I rolled my eyes so hard they nearly fell out of my skull, and stomped towards the door. My head pounded with each step, a hangover making its presence known.
“Rory, stop.”
I whirled around, nearly losing my balance. “What now?!” I snapped, voice sharp.
Maxwell crossed his arms over his chest. His eyes travelled down my torso, lingering on the black mesh top I’d worn to the club last night. The shirt that admittedly now felt sort of ridiculous in the harsh morning light of Maxwell’s flat.
“You can’t go out like that,” he said, one eyebrow raised.
“Are you fucking joking right now?” I gestured wildly. “What, is Detective Dickface suddenly the fashion police too? Worried I’ll embarrass you in front of the neighbours?”
He sighed, that familiar sound of exasperation. “It’s not that warm out. And it looks like it’s going to rain. Just… borrow that shirt again.” He nodded toward the blue button-up lying crumpled on the bed—the one I vaguely remembered clinging to last night.
I paused, my next cutting remark dying on my lips. The anger drained from me, leaving only confusion in its wake. Was Maxwell actually… being nice to me? First the chips and now this?
Morning light filtered through the blinds, casting stripes across his face. For a moment, neither of us spoke. Our eyes met, and a jolt shot through me—like static electricity but beneath my skin, radiating outward from my chest. I nearly gasped, fingers twitching involuntarily.
What the fuck?
Maxwell flinched slightly before staring at me, mouth slightly ajar.
I looked away first, rubbing my arms to dispel the lingering sensation. Likely, I was in caffeine withdrawal.
But something unfamiliar still hung in the air between us—not our usual antagonism, no, but something visceral and unspoken that made my wolf pace restlessly inside me.
Maxwell cleared his throat. “Anyway, you’ll need to wash that shirt for me,” he added, effectively shattering whatever moment we might have been having. “It probably has your vomit on it.”
“It does not!” I glared at him, but snatched up the shirt anyway, slipping it over the mesh top, trying to ignore how my fingers still tingled. It still smelt like him—that distinctive smell of raindrops on hot pavement. I inhaled deeper than I meant to, causing him to shoot me an odd look.
God, this guy really hated me.
Without another word, I stormed out of his flat, closing the door with just enough force to make a point.
On Maxwell’s street, the borrowed shirt flapped against my thighs in the brisk morning air. He’d been right about the weather—typicalLondon, grey and threatening rain. The hangover wasn’t helping either, each step sending little jolts of pain through my skull.
I found my car next to the building, slipping quickly inside it. Suddenly I was just… alone. That familiar creeping coldness settled over my skin—the one that always ambushed me in moments of solitude. The silence pressed in, amplifying the thoughts I’d been trying to outrun. Dev was in trouble. Real trouble. And here I was, hungover and useless, kicked out of Detective Dickface’s flat to await further instructions from the actually important people.
I plugged my phone into the car. When it burst to life, a picture of Freddy eating a cracker filled the screen. My baby’s glowing yellow eyes stared back at me, bits of cracker falling from his decomposing mouth.
The notification banner at the top of the screen caught my eye. A missed call, from about an hour ago.
