Page 55 of Moonlit Nights & Northern Lights
We crossed the car park, where the gravel gave way to woodland. The trees loomed dark and mysterious in the moonlight, their shadows stretching across the groundlike reaching fingers.
The light caught the pale planes of Rory’s face as he surveyed the woodland ahead of us, making his features appear sharper, more defined. “By the way,” he said, “if you lose me once I shift, just listen for whatever’s making the most noise and follow that. It’ll probably be me.”
I stared at him. “Why can Istillnever tell when you’re joking?”
“Maybe you’re just not very good at reading people,” he said with a grin. “Bit concerning for a telepathic detective, that.”
“I’m excellent at reading people. You’re just…” I searched for the right word. “Chaotic.”
“Chaotic?” Rory’s eyes lit up. “That’s definitely a compliment.” He laughed, a genuine sound that filled me with something light and buoyant, like helium. “But you’ll get used to me, eventually.” He was quiet for a moment, then added, “Well, if you decide to hang out with me—with Killigrew Street—more, after this. I’m surprised that you never really do.”
I stared at him. The words stuck in my throat as I remembered the Christmas gathering—lingering in the basement doorway of the hotel, hearing Rory’s voice drift from below:“Urg, but why is Detective Dickface coming? He’ll probably arrest us all for having too much fun.”
“You’ve never made me particularly welcome,” I said finally.
Rory’s expression shifted, guilt flickering across his features. “That’s true. That’s justme, though. The others have always been lovely to you. You could have come to stuff, and just ignored me.”
I couldn’t argue with that. Seb had extended invitations. Kit had offered drinks, and weekend runs. Priya often tried to include me in their banter. Felix attempted eye contact that lasted a whole second.
“Rory,” I said, quite seriously. “You’re impossible to ignore.”
He gave me a lopsided smile that made my heart skip a beat. I could still detect guilt radiating from him. Ialmostfelt bad for making him feel that way, even though he’d been an absolute wanker towards me. Was that all behind us now? Possibly, as long as I never needed to arrest him again.
“God, it’s beautiful out here,” Rory said suddenly, tilting his head back to look at the stars. “So peaceful. Makes me realise how much I need to get out of London more.”
I gazed upward at the vast expanse above us. Away from London’s light pollution, the night sky swam above us, delirious with stars—a velvet canvas punctuated by countless pinpricks of light, some merely whispers, others shouting their brilliance across the void.
“You can see the stars so much clearer here,” I murmured, almost to myself. “I’ve heard that sometimes in Scotland you can even see the Northern Lights?”
“Yeah, you can. Not in May, though. You need winter, with the long nights. I saw them just a few times when I was growing up.” His voice softened with something like nostalgia. “It’s a rare occasion—you need a combination of clear skies, strong solar activity, blah blah blah. Once, when I was about twelve, there was this incredible display—green and purple waves dancing across the sky.” He gestured with his hands, mimicking the movement. “Kit and I were asleep, but my dad woke us up to watch. It was… magical.”
The word hung between us, a rare moment of Rory speaking about his past without bitterness.
“I’ve never seen them,” I said. “Always wanted to.”
Thirty-two years old, and I’d never seen the Northern Lights. Or the pyramids. Or the Great Wall of China. I’d sent my mother off on holiday to see all those places, while I buried myself in case files and midnight coffees. Days blurring into weeks into years—time slipping through my fingers like water I never thought to cup my hands and save. Until suddenly I was here, standing in a beautiful moonlit forest with Rory Thorne of all people, wondering when my life had become a collection of postponed dreams.
My father would have understood the dedication, at least. He’d worked himself into the ground chasing his own dream—desperate to make detective, to prove himself worthy of more than the beat. Eighteen years on the force, and they never gave him the chance. He knewwhy—knew it had nothing to do with his record or his skills, and everything to do with the colour of his skin. When he died in the line of duty at forty-three, I was seventeen and drowning in grief. But I made myself a promise at his funeral: I’d achieve what he never could. I’d make detective. I’d do it for the both of us.
Of course, duty and purpose were more important than tourist traps. But standing under this vast sky, I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d traded too much of living for the job—if I’d become so focused on honouring his memory and taking care of Ma that I’d forgotten to actually live.
We walked in silence for several more minutes, venturing deeper into the trees until Rory finally stopped in a small clearing. The moonlight filtered through the canopy above, dappling the forest floor with silver light.
“So,” Rory said, placing his bag on the ground.
My pulse quickened. While I’d seen both Kit and Rory as wolves a few times before, I’d never actually watched the shift. And there was something about Rory right now, his blond hair almost silver in the dappled moonlight, that made me desperate to see it. There was a new energy about him—something wild and barely contained.
This was a side of him I hadn’t seen properly. Not Rory the pain in my ass, but Rory in his element. Rory as he was meant to be.
I realised I was staring and cleared my throat. “I’ve never actually seen a shifter turn before,” I admitted. “Can I… watch you do it?”
I instantly regretted the words as they left my mouth. Too intimate. Too revealing of my fascination.
Heat crept up my neck as Rory turned to face me, eyebrows raised.
“A, I’m pretty sure you don’t want to see me naked,” he said, counting on his fingers. “B, it’s not exactly a spectator sport…”
…oh my god there’s no way I want him to see me like that…
