Des sits on my desk, one of his boots perched on the back of my computer chair. He leans back against my window, sketching. Students walking to and from the dorms right now should be able to clearly see him. I live on the second story of the girls’ dormitory, and my room faces out onto campus. Anyone loitering outside tonight should be able to see Des’s big, hulking man-back.
But they don’t. And I know they don’t because if they did, our dorm’s house mother would be up my ass in about two seconds tops.
The visiting hours here ended long ago.
Which means the Bargainer is masking his presence here yet again.
“What’s wrong?” Des asks, not looking at me. He continues drawing, using the sketchbook and charcoal I recently bought him.
The sight wouldn’t be so strange if the charcoal and sketchbook were in his hands. But they aren’t. Instead, they float in midair three feet from him, and Des’s drawing is coming to life without him ever touching it. His arms are folded firmly over his chest.
“Nothing,” I say.
“Liar.”
I sigh out a breath, staring at his drawing from where I lay on my bed. “Are you embarrassed to be seen with me?” I ask.
“What?” The charcoal comes to a stop.
My cheeks are beginning to flush. This is humiliating. “Are you embarrassed to be seen with me?” I repeat.
The Bargainer turns to me, frowning. “Why would you ask something like that?”
I feel my stomach plummet. He isn’t denying it. “Oh my God, you are.”
He disappears from his perch only to appear right next to me. A moment later, his sketchbook and charcoal hit the floor behind him.
“Cherub,” he says, taking my hand, “I have no idea where you got this mad, mad idea. Why the hell would I be embarrassed to be seen with you?”
And just like that, my worry dissipates. I think I hate myself a little that Des has so much control over my emotions.
“You always use your magic to hide yourself around me,” I say.
He squeezes my hand, and I feel his touch all the way to my toes. “Callie, you have this absurd notion that I’m a good person, when I’m at the top of the Politia’s Wanted List. There are bounty hunters looking for me this very moment. They’re not the only ones either; I have clients and enemies that would happily use you to get to me. Masking my presence is second nature, especially around you.”
That made sense.
He hasn’t let go of my hand, nor has he left the side of my bed. It’s like we are poised right at the edge of something, and the longer he stares at me, the farther I begin to tip over the edge.
His silver eyes darken, and I suck in a breath at the look. I’ve seen that molten expression on a few men before.
But they were never Des.
My pulse begins to race.
I’m pinwheeling over the edge, falling into those eyes, that face.
If only what I liked about Des ended at that face. Then it might be easier to deny what I feel for him. But the thing is, the Bargainer saved my life months ago, and he’s continued to save it every day since. I like it that he’s fucked-up like me, that he’s wicked and sinful and makes no excuses for it. I like it that he doesn’t care that I might be a little wicked and sinful too.
I like it that he’s taught me how to play poker, and that I’ve made him watch Harry Potter … and read the books. (He hadn’t touched them before me, the heathen.) I like it that I get to travel the world with him every time he decides to take me on one of his bargains, that my room has become a collection of knickknacks of us.
I like it that he drinks espresso in tiny little cups, and that I can share my secrets with him, even if he keeps most of his to himself. He’s the highlight of my evenings.
Scratch that—he’s the highlight of my life.
And I’m content to be his friend, but tonight while he looks at me like that, I want more.
“Stay the night,” I whisper.
Des’s mouth parts, and I swear—I swear—I see a yes forming on his lips.
He blinks a few times, and just like that, the moment’s gone.
He clears his throat, releasing my hand. “Cherub, that’s inappropriate.”
“I’m an adult.” He’s pulling away from me, both physically and emotionally, and I know I shouldn’t try to chase after him when he’s like this, but I want to.
For a brief a few seconds, Des had been mine. And I’m pretty sure I didn’t imagine it.
“You’re sixteen,” he says.
“Exactly. The House of Keys thinks I’m an adult, I don’t know why you don’t.”
“You have day of the week panties,” Des says. “That means you’re too young for me to stay over.”
“How do you know I have day of the week panties?” I ask suspiciously.
He rubs his temples. “I should go.” He begins to stand, his impressive stature unfolding before my eyes.
I scramble to my feet as well. “Please don’t.”
We’re beginning to sound like a broken record. I push him too far, and he flees. The scariest thing of all? The more distance he puts between us, the more desperate I am to close it, and the more I try to close it, the farther away I push him.
I’m losing my best friend, and we both know it.
Des drops his hands. “Callie, if I stay, I give in. If I leave, I don’t.”
Then just give in.
But he doesn’t, and he won’t. Because despite everything the Bargainer says about himself, he’s an honorable man when it comes to me. And that really is the root of our problems. He might actually be the best man I know.
Present
Well shit.
Out of the frying pan and into the fire. That’s all I can think about on the flight over to Catalina Island.
We land in front of Des’s embarrassingly impressive house, and I walk out of his arms without a word. I can feel him at my back, his gaze assessing me.
The devious fucker is surely trying to figure out how to best approach me.
He’s going to have to keep puzzling over it. Even I am not sure how to best approach me right now because I have no idea what exactly I’m feeling.
Annoyance, definitely. My leash just got a lot tighter. Anger—and incredulity—that the Bargainer actually forced me to move in with him for the foreseeable future. Depending on how slowly he makes me pay off my debt, I could potentially live under his roof for the rest of my life.
I ignore the spark excitement that comes with that thought; my heart is obviously an idiot.
Beneath all these frustrated emotions, there’s relief. Relief that I didn’t have to cave to my ego and stay inside a house that felt unsafe, or swallow my pride and beg this man to let me stay with him again so soon after I left.
“I have no regrets, you know,” he says behind me, his even voice carrying across the yard.
Ignoring him, I head up his stone steps and into his palatial house.
“Breakfast and coffee,” I say. “I can’t be civil with you until I have some breakfast and coffee.”
I feel a hand on my back as the Bargainer materializes next to me. “Then let’s get the lady what she wants. I have just the thing for you …”
Douglas mutha-freaking Café. That’s what he was hinting at earlier.
“It’s been … years,” I say, looking around the familiar café. The place looks unchanged, from the polished wood tables to the framed photos of the harbor, to the glass case filled with pastries.
When Des led me to his portal room, I was more than a little reluctant to venture down one of his ley lines again. But when we stepped off the line and onto the Isle of Man, my opinion did a one-eighty.
Outside the café, the sky is dark. It might be afternoon in Southern California, but it’s already evening here on the British Isles.
Des leans back in his seat, stirring his coffee idly. Something a lot like nostalgia tightens my throat. Des used to take me here whenever he got bored of sitting around my dorm room.
His gaze follows mine to each detail of the café. “Did you miss this place?” he asks.
“Not as much as the company,” I admit.
He looks almost pained at that.
“Why did you leave, Des?” I whisper. We’re going to have to go over all of this at some point if we’re living under the same roof.
His expression turns grim. “That is a conversation for another time.”
I almost groan in frustration. “It’s been so long, what does it matter?”
I’m such a goddamn liar. It still matters. Desmond Flynn is a wound that’s never healed.
“It matters,” is all he says, echoing my thoughts.
Beautiful, frustrating man. He’s eyeing me like a cornered animal would. That’s never a good position to put a supernatural in, especially a fae king.
I know all this, and yet I still can’t let the subject go.
“Tell me,” I insist.
He rubs his eyes, hissing out a breath. “It’s not in my nature to tell you. None of this is in my fucking nature. I will explain it all when the time’s right.”
All my hopes plummet at that. “Des, it’s been seven years. How long do I have to wait for the time to be right?”
The atmosphere at our little table darkens. “Do you even know the meaning of waiting?”
I reel back at the bite in his words.
He leans his forearms on the table, a lock of his white hair escaping the leather thong he tied it back in. “Seven years, Callie, and how many of them did you spend single?” He seems to swell with the emotion in his voice.
“What?” I reel back, eyeing him. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Everything.”
Is Des … jealous?
“Tell me,” he repeats, the shadows deepening in the room, “how many years of those were you single?”
I’m still staring at him, dumbfounded. Of all the millions of ways I could spend my day, I hadn’t imagined this would be one of them.
Des grabs my wrist, taking hold of a bead. “Answer me.”
The words are ripped from my throat. “None of them.”
Ugh. Fuck magic. And fae debt collectors.
“None of them,” the Bargainer repeats, angry but satisfied. He releases my wrist.
I glare. “And I expect you kept your hands to yourself as well?” I’ve heard enough stories about the King of the Night and his revolving door of women. “You asshole. You left me. You broke my heart and you left me. You don’t get to be jealous of what came after that.”
He leans forward, his face menacing. “I didn’t leave you, Callie.”
Now I’m pissed. “You fled my room that night after the dance. Tell me how that’s not leaving.”
“You don’t know anything.”
“Then enlighten me.”
We stare each other down. Shadows are collecting around us as Des’s emotions get the better of him. The other patrons don’t notice it, thanks to the dim lighting and the night sky outside, but I do.
Just seeing him this worked should be satisfying, but under my anger I’m baffled by it. He left all those years ago, and now he’s insisting he didn’t. And it’s been so long that I’m wondering if I am remembering incorrectly.
But no, that particular night is burned into my brain.
I wait for him to explain himself, but as usual, it doesn’t come. I push away my drink and the last of my croissant, losing my appetite.
His eyes linger on the action. “Cherub, what happened last night?”
“You’re going to have to take a bead if you want any answers out of me,” I snap, annoyed. If he’s going to fight explaining himself, then I sure as hell will as well.
A little bit of the anger dies in his grey eyes, replaced by that curving smirk. This, he likes. My feistiness, my engagement.
He wraps his hand around my bracelet, and briefly my gaze flicks to his elaborate sleeve of tattoos.
“Tell me what happened last night,” he repeats, and this time there’s magic behind his words.
I shudder as it takes hold, and instantly I regret baiting him. “Nothing.”
I begin to feel pressure against my windpipe.
“My magic seems to disagree,” the Bargainer says.
I want to groan. “What else do you want me to tell you? After you left, I cleaned up my house, hung out with my friend for a few hours, and went to bed early. When I woke up, I found my bedroom exactly how you saw it.”
Des resumes stirring his coffee. “My magic isn’t releasing you, so you might try thinking a little harder.”
I narrow my eyes at him.
He raises an eyebrow. “Or you can slowly suffocate. Your choice.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” I wheeze. “I watched TV, I went to sleep, I woke up on a shredded bed.”
Still no relief. And now I feel like just another of the Bargainer’s clients, squirming under his power.
He takes a sip of his coffee. “What happened in the time between you going to bed and you waking up?”
I give him a bewildered look. “I slept.”
The magic presses down my chest.
“Soundly? Fitfully?” he probes. “Did you have nightmares?”
I remember the storm that shook the house, and the moaning wind that invaded my sleep.
“I did dream,” I say.
Is there a tad less pressure on my chest?
“About what?” Des presses.
I try to remember. It’s just out of reach.
“Since when do you read into dreams?” I say.
“Since always. I am the King of the Night. I rule over everything that encompasses, including dreams.”
That made some sort of sense.
I grab my drink and stare down into it, shaking my head. “I don’t know. Those children I met, they were there, holding me down. And there was a voice—a male voice.” What had he said?
Let me in, siren; I’ll give you wings to fly. Just open your door and part your pretty thighs.
My cheeks heat.
Jesus.
“What did the voice say?” Des asks.
“I’m not repeating that in public.”
The fae king looks intrigued.
Now that I recall the dream, the magic intensifies like it knows I’m willfully withholding the information.
When I still don’t answer, his eyes move over me. “You’re really going to hold out, babe?”
Not for long—the magic’s squeezing the life out of me.
“Not in public.” I’m nearly begging.
The Bargainer studies me for a moment longer. He snaps his fingers, and the noise around us lowers, becoming muffled. “That’s as much privacy as you’re going to get.”
It’s enough. Well, to be honest, it’s not enough—I don’t exactly want to admit the content of my dreams to Des—but I’ve already admitted I want his babies, so there’s really nothing left of my pride to protect.
I stare down into my drink. “He said, ‘Let me in, siren; I’ll give you wings to fly. Just open your door and part your pretty thighs.’”
The pressure leaves my chest.
Finally.
Around us, the noise rises once more.
Across from me, Des’s shadows are back. Moody man.
“You never saw who spoke?” he asks.
I shake my head and take a sip of my drink.
I set the mug down gingerly. “Are you actually taking my dream seriously?” I ask.
Des runs a thumb over his lower lip. “Perhaps,” he says distractedly. “In the Otherworld, dreams are never just dreams. They’re another sort of reality.”
I let that sink in. “You … you think something from the Otherworld visited me last night?”
“I don’t know.”
I might have a fae stalker.
One that can infiltrate my dreams.
I feel so dirty. Dirty and vulnerable. My mind can be manipulated by some creature, and I can’t do anything to stop it. I thought staying back at my home would offer me some extra measure of protection, but it didn’t.
“You think this has anything to do with the disappearances?” I ask now.
I’m sitting in the Bargainer’s couch, watching him as he paces back and forth across the room, his arms behind his back.
He cuts a glance my way and, frowning, gives me a jerky nod.
Well, shit.
What had those kids called the man behind the mystery? The Thief of Souls. Not exactly the kind of name that gives you warm fuzzies.
How many times had Temper and I dealt with a similar situation? How many criminals had threatened us over the years?
Countless. And when that happened, the only surefire way to guarantee our safety was to nab the bad guy before they got to us.
I take a deep breath. “I want to help you solve this case. Not just interview servants, but actually solve it.” Before my stalker makes good on his promises.
Des stops pacing. “You wish to help me and my people?” He gives me a strange look.
I shift a little on his couch, uneasy by the odd intensity in his eyes.
“That’s not what I said.”
He prowls closer to me, tilting his head like he can divine my secrets from my face. “But you mean to.” He reaches the couch, looking down at me. “Helping me any more than you already have will place you in danger—danger that even my protection might not save you from. We can find other ways for you to repay your debts.”
“This isn’t about repayment,” I say.
His eyes deepen. Almost reluctantly he tears his gaze from mine, rubbing his chin. His shadows have lovingly wrapped themselves around my legs.
“I should say no,” he muses aloud. “There are so many reasons why I should say no.” His eyes slide to mine. “Even knowing the danger, you’re still interested in helping me?” he asks.
I hesitate, then nod, squeezing my thighs. Am I frightened? Of course. But that’s never stopped me in the past from taking on a case.
“Alright, cherub, we’ll figure this out. Together.”
