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“In unrelated news, I never want to do this again.” Her eyes narrow. “Unless you buy all the tickets, and tell them to turn the flashing lights and smoke machines off. Also, confiscate the chainsaws. And maybe everyone can wear nice clothes instead of witchy outfits. It wouldn’t hurt the shops to clean themselves up and opt for more of a cottagecore vibe, either. Turn the whole thing into a fairy butterfly garden for just the two of us.”
“I’ll see if I can contact someone willing to sell the love potion recipe.”
She gasps, sparkling. “You get me.” Her smile erodes, and she scrunches her nose before biting the whole fleshy part of my thumb. “I mean, no you don’t. Shut up.”
I melt into a useless puddle. In a lapse of judgment, I twist her hand into my grip, pull it up to my mouth, and bite her back.
Her eyes widen.
“What?” I murmur against her knuckles.
Streetlight streams in the windows to catch on her blushing cheeks. “Nothing…” She settles, and her eyes close again. “Nothing at all.”
Awful lot of something in that nothing, but I let it slide.
By the time we make it back to her place, it’s past one in the morning. A quiet stillness fills the chilled air, and Marcella’s bundled up in her wings for warmth as she flutters up the steps to the front doors. Breath puffs from her mouth when she yawns. “You have two bodyguards in the car,” she murmurs into the sleepy cold.
My brow arches. I tilt a look back at the car, picture Mark and Jeff chatting beyond the black-out windows. “Yes?”
“Pity.”
“Pity? Why?”
She opens a front door and peeks into the gaping dark lobby. “What would they do all night if I invited you in…”
My lungs constrict so violently I think I might be having a heart attack. Swallowing, hard, I fight to contain myself and say, “My dear…what would we do all night if you invited me in?”
“Sleep.”
This information doesn’t cease my heart’s efforts to beat from my chest.
Lingering in the doorway, Marcella frowns back at me. “If you smile, I’ll stab you, got it?”
I train my expression fully neutral and nod.
She takes a fortifying breath, releases it into the void that is the dark lobby, then mutters, “I’m…scared. Tonight was an absolutely awful decision, and I don’t want to cry myself to sleep with the lights on.”
My lips part.
She’s scared.
She’s scared and she wants me with her.
I’m awestruck, dissolving, happier than I should be, when she lands the final blow: “Besides—” She flicks nonexistent dust off her skirt. “—whether or not I can stand sharing a bed with you is valuable information for the future.”
“We don’t have to share a bed if we get married,” I blurt. “Our bedroom will be large enough to have separate beds. Or, if even that bothers you, you can have your own room.”
“Finn.” She glares at me over her shoulder. “Don’t you think you’re a little too accommodating? What’s the point of getting married if we go on to act like roommates?”
Helpless, I say, “B-because…I love you.”
Heat races up her neck. She cuts her fingers into her hair and digs her nails into her scalp. “Go take care of Mark and Jeff. I’m not walking through this pit of darkness by myself.”
After I let Mark and Jeff know that they can head home for the night, I escort Marcella to her bedroom, take off my jacket, and try not to fall apart when she leaves the bathroom in one of the pairs of pajamas she got from Walmart. She gives me a firm once-over while brushing her teeth, then mutters through the foam, “I don’t think any of my clothes will fit you.” Turning to spit in the sink, she sighs. “I guess you’ll have to sleep in your boxers. Assuming you wear boxers. Anything less than boxers, and I will cry.”
While my brain derails on a blinding image of that experience, I remember a vital detail.
This is my house.
