Page 69 of Fang Fatale

Whether for her benefit or mine...

I'm honestly not sure.

The touch is almost nothing.

Barely enough to count.

Yet the sensation climbs my arm the way pain sometimes does—distorted, impossible to measure, entirely out of proportion.

When the strands slip loose again...

I catch myself braiding them.

Not particularly well.

The last time I did this, my sister still had all her baby teeth.

Turns out muscle memory isn't just for murder.

The rhythm is simple.

Mindless.

Comforting.

If I could bottle this feeling and sell it to the rest of the Grimhavens, we'd eliminate anxiety before sundown.

Once I'm certain she's asleep⁠—

Truly asleep⁠—

I look up at the ceiling and finally allow myself to say the things I've spent weeks swallowing.

"I don't know when you stopped being a client."

The words sound strange spoken aloud.

"Or when I started keeping track of your laugh instead of your address."

A small smile tugs at one corner of my mouth.

"Probably the night you argued with Clover about sugar versus saccharine and nearly started a tea riot."

My voice comes out softer than I intended.

Like a secret meant for someone sleeping in another room.

"I don't even like coffee."

I laugh quietly at myself.

"But I've gone into Hex & Honey four times a week just for the chance to hear you insult the pastries."

The confession settles into the warm room.

And somehow...

After centuries...