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Oh boy, if only he knew. Not my secret to tell, though. I doubt it would go down well if Sunday found out about Séverin feeding from me.

“Maybe,” I say with faux nonchalance. I figure that there’s probably only so much he can take at a time.

He grunts, flexing his fingers and then settling them back in his lap. “What about werewolves?”

I sigh, cracking an eye open. His are still glued shut, eyebrows knitted together.

“Because, like, does it make you a furry if you fuck one?” he adds.

I try not to laugh. I really do.

“Sunny.”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.”

He rolls his lips together, clearly trying to hold the rest of his questions in. I stare at him until he finally relaxes. Third time’s the charm.

It doesn’t work. Tap. Tap. Tap-tap-tap.

When his knee bounces enough to knock the coffee table, I give up, jumping to my feet. His eyes fly open, tracking me as I stomp around behind him.

“You need to chill the hell out,” I say sternly, dropping down behind him and pulling on his shoulders until he gets the hint.

I don’t know what on earth is possessing me to cradle his head between my legs, but it fits just like it always used to. Before I can overthink it, I run my thumb down the center of his forehead to the space between his brows.

“What are you—” he starts, but I slam my free hand over his mouth.

Surprise and mischief sparkle in his eyes as I stare down at him, the waning darkness revealing a gray-blue hue that glitters like seawater under starlight. Air puffs out of his nose, ghosting over my knuckles.

“Are you going to be quiet?” I dip my head until the tips of my hair tickle his face, his cheek twitching at the contact. He nods, as much as he can with my hand clamped over his mouth.

We used to do this.

Particularly when he was stressed before his finals, I’d sit behind him like this and stroke his face until he fell asleep. I got awful neck aches from falling asleep against the headboard, but it was worth it at the time—waking up with this giant rottweiler of a man cuddling my thigh like a prized stuffy.

I run my thumb over his forehead until the crease between his brows disappears and his eyes fall shut. This should be enough, but I can’t stop stroking slow, soothing patterns over his temples and scalp. I forgot how soft his hair is, black silk gliding through my fingers.

Delphine wanders over to look over my shoulder, admiring his face. “Disturbingly handsome.”

I can’t deny it, not really. He’s utterly gorgeous, the way gothic architecture is—all hard lines and stained-glass windows. Best admired from a distance, but…it’s getting harder to ignore the fact that something bloomed when I walked into his workshop on my first day at the museum. A single flower, growing in the darkest corner of my mind, no matter how hard I try not to tend to it.

A low groan rumbles in his throat. “Fuck, that feels so nice, Bels. You have no idea.”

I have some idea.

My body takes the opportunity to remind me that I’m still a human being. I accept the slow drip of desire as it comes, letting it spread through my belly.

“Making you sleepy?” My voice comes out more husky than I intended as I continue stroking his cheek. He turns into the contact, smiling lazily, making my stomach flip.

I close my eyes again, pulling myself out of my memories and back to the task at hand.

Shifting my attention to the spirit realm, I wait for any signs to come through—images, fragmented words, scent, taste. I’m a rarity in that I have access to all the clairs and not just clairvoyance. A blessing and a curse.

There’s…something there, but it’s nestled so deep that I can barely brush my magic up against it. It could take time—maybe a couple of sessions—to coax whatever this is forward.

Again, it could be nothing. I could just be sensing his bottled emotions, his stress.