by Ivy Asher
Tad passes the bottle back to me, and I dutifully drink my share. I swear I’ve never seen a bottle of wine this big with its little feet on the label, but it makes me feel like I shrunk the last time I died and came back to life.
“Can you see my bullet holes?” I ask Tad, brushing hair away from where I felt the scars earlier.
Tad leans closer and squints at me. “Nope, but to be fair, there’s one and a half of you right now, and both of them are a skosh fuzzy,” he confesses, and I shrug and drop my tangled locks back down. “I need more wine if you’re going to talk about head wounds,” Tad declares, and I take a few more gulps before passing the bottle back.
“There’s something wrong with me,” I whine as I throw my head back and bang it on one of the many copper knobs attached to the five hundred drawers the vanity has. I glare at the knob, pissed that it got me again. “We talked about this,” I snap at it, giving it the angry mom finger and a withering glare. The knob doesn’t even flinch.
Hard ass.
“There is absolutely nothing wrong with you,” Tad reassures me as he tries to level me with a chastising gaze. Mostly it looks like he’s trying to figure out which me to focus on. “I mean other than the ratty hair, way too big sweat suit, and the bags your eyes are rocking, but you know what I mean,” he adds, and I refocus my withering glare from the knob to Tad.
Rude.
“I don’t mean in the woe is me, existential kind of way,” I correct him, tripping up way more than I should on the word existential. “I mean, there is literally something wrong with me, more specifically my magic, which is basically me because I am an Osteomancer, dammit.”
“Woot woot!” Tad cheers, like I just said let’s do shots instead of my magic is fucked up.
When I don’t join in on the cheer, Tad quiets, stares at the bottle of wine in his hand and then shrugs before slamming more of it down.
“Rogan knows, but he’s pulling a Rogan and keeping it to himself. Either that or he hates me because I killed Marx,” I moan, dropping my head into my hands, only I don’t get my hands up fast enough, so I just chin bump my chest.
Ow.
“Wait, you killed someone?” Tad asks, suddenly serious, minus the swaying his body is doing.
“Like so many someones,” I correct, a flash of cracking bones and screaming Order members flashing in my mind before I blink and it’s gone. A shiver slithers up my spine, and I reach for the wine. “I couldn’t even get his body. I wanted to, but there wasn’t enough time or enough magic. I just left him back there like he didn’t matter, but he mattered, Tad. He really mattered,” I tell him, drowning my words and pain in more gulps of wine.
“Of course he did, Leonardo. You all survived, and that’s what Marx would have wanted. He would have been annoyed if you died or got caught trying to get his body. He would have been the first to tell you that was stupid.”
I nod at his words, knowing he’s right, but it doesn’t lessen the guilt. I don’t know if anything ever will.
“Were they trying to kill you first?” Tad asks, his head tilted thoughtfully, clearly still stuck on my candid admission to being a murderer.
“Mm-hmmm,” I mumble, my mouth full of more wine that I don’t like but can’t seem to stop drinking.
“Doesn’t count then,” he assures me, as though there’s no way he’ll be convinced that I’m a cold-blooded murderer, no matter what I say. “And you didn’t kill Marx, Len, they killed him. You did everything you could.”
“But he died,” I argue, tears welling in my eyes.
“Because of them,” he repeats, his face softening and his unfocused eyes begging the one and a half mes he sees to hear what he’s saying. “I see the way Rogan looks at you, Lennox, and I guarantee you he doesn’t think there’s a thing wrong with you. Ask him what’s up with blocking the tether, give him a chance to explain what’s going on with him before you jump to the worst conclusion.”
“I will, obviously, but it’s not just him. My magic has been weird since I woke up—the first time. Well, and this time. I don’t know what it is, but I hate it. I was just feeling good about my place in all of this, really finding my stride as a witch, you know? And then I had to die and everything is all messed up…again.”
“If I had a nickel for every time I heard someone complain about dying,” Tad teases, cheersing with the now almost empty bottle of rosé. “I’d have three nickels, two for you, and one for Elon,” he goes on, laughing deeply at his own joke. “Do you think there are other immortals out there besides you guys?” he asks contemplatively.
I shrug and then realize that’s a difficult move to maneuver after too much alcohol. “I mean, probably, there’s so much out there in the world that I never knew was there, why not immortals.”
“How do we find them?” Tad demands, like they’re simply lost.
“Fuck if I know. Maybe I should start carrying around a sword and screaming there can be only one. They might stop by for a chat then,” I suggest, trying and failing to shrug again, but only one shoulder cooperates.
“I rode a ley line,” Tad announces, his eyes suddenly wide.
“Oohhh nice!” I reach for the bottle and finish it off.
“Totally passed out, that hot dude Cohen had to carry me. I woke up in his arms all damsel-like, and I gotta say, I get the appeal.”
I crack up, and Tad just nods at me fervently. “You’d totally rock a sword P.S.”
“Right? I was just thinking that,” I agree.
There’s a knock on the door, and both Tad and I turn to stare at it. I realize one of us actually has to say come in, and I start cracking up when neither of us do.
Maybe if Rogan had our tether working, he’d know he can open the door, I think smugly, and then Tad shouts come in, but it sounds more like comenuminum.
Rogan pokes his head in, like he’s unsure of what he might find. His eyes land on my face, and I think there’s a flash of relief that I’m no longer bawling hysterically. I wouldn’t know though because the douche is still blocking me.
“Can I have a word with Lennox?” Rogan asks Tad, opening the door wider and stepping in.
Tad shoots me a look like we just got busted, and Rogan’s vibe definitely has a you’re in trouble feel to it.
“Suuure,” Tad agrees, and then he tries to get up.
Rogan scoops down and helps him get to his feet and then holds him there for a moment until Tad gets his swaying under control. He looks down at me and wags his eyebrows.
“I’m tellin’ ya, these damsels are on to something,” he coos, and I giggle. “I’ll go get more wine, be right back,” he chirps, heading out into the room.
“I’ll bet you five dollars we’ll find him passed out on the stairs in five minutes,” I tell Rogan, laughing at the visual I just conjured of drunk Tad with carpet lines on his face in the morning.
Rogan moves all the way into the bathroom and shuts the door behind him before looking down at me. I fidget under the weight of his stare, not sure what he’s thinking.
“We need to talk,” he starts, and everything inside of me plummets into a pit of despair.
Those four words never mean anything good.
17
“Fuck, why do you look like I just kicked your puppy?” Rogan asks, his eyes filled with concern.
“I mean, are you going to? Are you going to kick my puppy, because if you are, can we just wait until tomorrow? It’s been a long day. I kind of died and then had a teensy weensy breakdown, and now I’m pretty sure I’m three sheets to the wind, whatever the hell that means...”
Rogan bends down in front of me, his sudden nearness cutting off my rambling. “I think it’s Pirate for drunk,” Rogan tells me, a small smile ticking at the corner of his mouth, and its presence on his face fills me with so much joy that my eyes start to well up.
“Fuck, I love that smile,” I declare, blinking back the rush of emotions that just slammed into me.
“I love you,” he tells m
e back, and I stare deeply into his eyes like I’ll see all the proof I need in them.
“Do you though? Do you still love me, with everything that’s happened?” I ask, hating how uncertain and small I sound.
Come on, you are Lennox Osseous, the freakin’ Osteomancer of all Osteomancers, I tell myself, but for some reason, the inner pep talk isn’t doing much for me today. Probably because my inner voice is super focused on nachos right about now.
Man, I’m hungry.
Rogan grabs my hands and stands up, trying to pull me up with him. I grumble in protest.
“Nooo. The floor is so comfy, and there’s a knob that’s been giving me some lip, but I think it’s starting to come around to the fact that we were always meant to be friends,” I object, and Rogan chuckles.
He gets me to my feet, with minimal help from me, and guides me toward the stairs on the back wall. He sets me down and then turns on the taps to the tub and starts to fill it. Without saying a word, he’s back in front of me, pulling at the hem of the huge hoodie I’m wearing, and like the good girl I wish I was, I put my arms up so he can take it off.
I’m completely naked underneath, but any heat I might feel over his undressing me cools when I look down and see the dried blood on my abdomen. A small hole marks the spot to the left of my belly button where I was shot, and I begin to wonder how many scars will mar us inside and out before all of this is over.
Rogan stands me up and pulls my pants down, and then he takes the clothes I was wearing and walks over to the garbage, chucking them inside almost violently. I’m a little taken aback by the level of aggression he just showed those clothes, and I watch him with concern as he comes back to check the temperature of the water.
“Were they talking shit to you or something?” I ask after a beat, too curious to let it go.
I mean, I did almost get in a fight with a drawer knob earlier, who am I to judge a sweatshirt beat down?
An incredulous snort escapes Rogan, and he shakes his head. “When Riggs was alerted that we’d shown up on pack land uninvited, Saxon just so happened to be with him,” Rogan starts. “Then, conveniently, his house was the closest one to where we were, so I took you there to get you cleaned up. Which is why the both of us have been wearing his clothes since we rode the ley line nearby.”
I nod in understanding and try to bite back the amused smile that wants to peak out and play simply because of the annoyance written all over Rogan’s face right now.
“Guess that ass kicking will have to wait until next time,” I tease, not able to help myself, and Rogan shoots me an unamused look.
Yikes.
“Get in,” he orders, jutting his chin at the tub, and I roll my eyes.
“Bossy,” I grumble, but I do as I’m told and dip one foot and then the other into the gloriously hot water.
I moan in pure delight as I sink down into the massive egg shaped copper tub. I swear I could compete for an Olympic medal in this thing.
Hmmm, what would be my stroke?
Rogan grabs some bottles of products from the glass-encased shower and then sits behind me on the step. Out of nowhere, warm water cascades down my hair, and I squeal in surprise. Strong hands encourage me to tilt my head back, and I do as another cup of warm water wets my hair.
“So does Saxon know...” I start.
“No, thank fuck. Your heart was beating by the time they showed up. Riggs helped cover and told him we were taking you to a healer. Saxon was worried, but he didn’t question his alpha or me. I told Riggs and Viv the truth after we apparated here. They both swore on their pack that they would never tell a soul unless given explicit permission by us to do so.”
I nod and he wets my hair again. Then I hear the top of a shampoo bottle being popped open, and I realize that Rogan has every intention of washing my hair. I’m surprised but one hundred percent here for it. I close my eyes as the smell of juniper and fig fills my nose, and then Rogan’s hands are working through my hair, lathering up the soap and scrubbing all of the blood and dirt out.
I revel in how good this all feels, but it doesn’t completely combat the unease that’s settled in my chest or the fuzzy head I’m currently battling, although that last one I blame on the wine.
“This is great, don’t get me wrong, but it’s not going to distract me from the fact that you didn’t answer my question,” I tell him, and his hands go still in my hair.
“Your question?” he asks, confused.
“Um, yeah, you know that one where I asked you if you still love me despite everything that’s happened?” I repeat, not sounding any better as I ask a second time.
“I thought that was rhetorical, sorry,” he snarks, and I give him an incredulous snort.
“Of course I still love you, Lennox. You’re it for me. Good days or bad, sleep or no sleep, cuddle slut or pouting on the other end of the couch. It’s you and me forever.”
“I am totally not a pouter,” I defend, and he chuckles.
He rinses my hair, and the bath water around me turns murky. I pop the drain and silently beg it to take it all away. Rogan puts conditioner in my hair and then starts to comb it through with a wide-tooth comb. I turn to him, shocked by his hair care knowledge, and quirk an eyebrow. Rogan blushes and I instantly feel even more curious about why the pink is tinging his cheeks.
“I might have looked up how to care for curly hair,” he tells me sheepishly, and I find him so damn adorable I almost can’t take it. I look at the shampoo and conditioner, and sure enough, they’re designed for curly locks.
“But when would you have gotten all of this?” I ask, puzzled.
“The cleaner stocked everything at my request, just in case, when we were in Chicago. After the run-in with my mother, I figured better to be prepared.”
My eyes bounce back and forth between his. I’m so touched by this simple yet incredibly thoughtful and sweet thing. Silence stretches between us, and I debate shattering this beautiful moment between us with questions, but I can’t wait any longer. I need to know once and for all, or I’m going to scream.
“Rogan, why are you blocking me?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. My heart stutters with nerves, terrified that his reasons will shatter the incredible thing we have building between us.
“What? Why would I block you?” he asks, as though my question is ridiculous.
“I don’t know, because you’re mad at me or hurting or hiding something or you think something’s wrong with me but you don’t want me to feel it. Take your pick,” I tell him, hating that he’s making me spell it out like this.
“I’m not,” he counters adamantly.
“You’re not what? Mad? Hurt? Hiding something from me? Can you answer a question properly? Are you trying to drive me mad so I never get any answers?” I demand, my tone and frustration rising in pitch with each word.
Rogan takes a deep breath and fixes his eyes on mine. “I am not blocking you, Lennox. I’m not any of those other things either,” he defends.
“You’re not?” I clarify, cautiously.
“No. I’m not,” he reassures me, and I don’t know what to feel. I reach for the tether, questioning what I know I felt earlier. Maybe I was wrong or confused after just waking up. I reach the connection that ties me to Rogan and, without a doubt, it’s still blocked.
“Then why can’t I feel you?” I ask, distress sneaking into my tone.
“It happened when you died. The tether just stopped, and I couldn’t feel you either. I figured it would come back, like it did the first time.”
My brow furrows with befuddlement. “What do you mean?”
“In the church when you died, the connection blinked out. I didn’t feel anything until the morning Marx called to tell me the bodies were missing. I had a flash of fear and panic earlier that day, but I didn’t recognize it for what it was, because we hadn’t used the tether that much before you died. I only figured it out after I saw you at your aunt’s house. I could see what you were feeling wri
tten all over your face, and then I could match that to the sensations filtering into me through the tether. I thought it would snap back into place again, just like it did last time,” he explains, and I grow even more confounded while not missing the way his face fell when he said Marx’s name.
“Why didn’t you say something before?” I question, worried.
“I don’t know, a lot has happened. I didn’t think about it until now. Is that what’s been bothering you this whole time? You thought I had purposely shut it down somehow?” he asks, realization dawning in his beautiful green eyes.
“Well...yeah…you never said anything about our connection being affected. I didn’t know,” I stammer, unsure if I feel upset or relieved over the fact that he’s not shutting me out on purpose. I want to talk to him about Marx, tell him how sorry I am for what happened, but it doesn’t feel right. He looks too exhausted, too run down, and I don’t want to add any more to his plate of things that need to be dealt with tonight.
“Lennox,” he starts, my name falling reverently off his lips. His voice is practically a purr, and it does all kinds of things for my fuzzy head and warm body. “I know we’re still settling into us, but when I say I love you, that you’re it for me, I mean it. I shut you out before, and it almost cost me everything. I will never risk that again...never,” he reassures me, pressing his forehead to mine, and I can hear the vow in his voice.
I run my wet fingers through his hair and just feel him against me, both of us quiet as we anchor ourselves and recalibrate.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with our tether, but we’ll figure it out. I’ve already contacted my aunt. Let’s see what she has to say before we worry. Okay?” he assures me, a tired yawn sneaking out to punctuate just how worn out he has to feel. “Now, let me finish your hair and then we can go to bed. It’s been a long day,” he tells me gently, stroking my cheek with his thumb.
I nod, cupping his cheek tenderly for a moment before I turn back around. Rogan combs through my hair in silence and then rinses it with the clean water still pouring from the tap. We trade small smiles and hesitant touches, everything that we’ve been through in the last twenty-four hours slowly catching up to us.