Page 13 of Roaring Spell

“Get out.”

He doesn’t move.

“I said get out.”

“I heard you.”

“Then why are you still standing there?”

“Because I’m not leaving.”

The wind outside intensifies. I feel my weather responding to my temper, clouds gathering overhead, pressure dropping. If I don’t get control of myself, I’m going to create another thunderstorm, and this time there will be a witness.

A witness who will report back to the Protection Network that I’m unstable and dangerous and need to be dealt with.

“Are you going to stand there all day?”

“Sit, actually.” He moves toward the waiting area—two small chairs I bought for clients I don’t have—and lowers himself into one. It groans under his weight but holds. Barely. “If necessary.”

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Good.” His gaze meets mine again, patient and infuriatingly calm. “I’m not offering to babysit.”

“Then what are you offering?”

“Company. Backup if you need it. Someone to blame if things go wrong.”

I stare at him. Of all the responses I expected—threats, warnings, ultimatums—that wasn’t one of them.

“That’s... surprisingly practical.”

The wind dies. Anger I understand. This feeling, whatever it is, apparently doesn’t know what weather to make.

He notices. Of course, he notices. His eyes flick to the window, to the settling mist, back to me. His mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but close.

I look down at the cup still in my hand. My usual, right down to the extra sugars. Marcus’s careful script on the side.

“How did you know what I drink?”

“I asked.”

“Asked who?”

“Everyone.”

The word sits between us. Everyone. He asked everyone in Mistvale what coffee I drink.

I don’t know what to do with that information. Neither does my weather, which produces a confused mix of sunshine and drizzle that makes the mist outside sparkle.

He watches it happen. Watches the sun break through clouds while rain continues to fall. The corner of his lip quirks.

Is that amusement? Is this man laughing at my emotional weather?

“I’m not going to apologize for the disturbances.” I lift my chin, defiant. “I’m working on control. It takes time.”

“I know.”

“And I don’t need supervision. I’ve managed for twenty-six years without a Protection Network babysitter.”