Page 16 of Fang Fatale

“He's annoyingly good.”

The name lands with a thud.

I know it, in the way all fugitives know the names of the people who might blow their cover.

“Why is he here?”

Dandy sets down her mug and studies me with the kind of precision that means she’s about to say something inconveniently true.

“Because your ex is nothing if not persistent.”

For one awful second, the world contracts into a point of raw, nauseating dread.

I want to grab my go-bag and vanish. Pick a new city, a new name, and start the whole charade over.

Instead, I stand perfectly still, gripping the windowsill so hard my fingertips ache.

“I need to leave.”

I’m already halfway toward the door.

Dandy lifts one eyebrow.

“You say that every time.”

A beat.

“But you never make it past the mailbox.”

Fair.

The mailbox is a solid two hundred yards from the cottage, and the last time I made a break for it, I was ambushed by a flock of weaponized crows and an ill-timed reminder of what happens when you don’t pay for express shipping.

“Just... please tell me the wards are still up,” I whisper.

She gives me a look equal parts wounded and offended.

“You say that like I’m the type to let a basic perimeter go fallow.”

She gestures vaguely, and the faintest tingle dances across my skin, like confidence suddenly had a texture.

“You’re safe, B.”

I nod, trying—and failing—to match her certainty.

“How long do you think he’ll stay out there?”

Dandy considers the question.

“Alaric Grimhaven is the kind of man who naps in church because he likes the acoustics. He’s not leaving until he gets what he’s after.”

She grins.

“If you want to outwait him, you’ll have to be weirder than he is.”

I think about that.

“That sounds... exhausting.”