Warrior Fae Trapped (Warrior Fae #1)(42)

Devon pushed off the couch and headed toward the kitchen. As he passed, he veered in close and tapped a square with a white telephone on a green background.

Oh yeah. Good clue as to which button she was supposed to tap.

“I would say don’t quit your day job, but I don’t think that would help,” Devon said smugly as he moved out of the room.

“Oh, shut it,” she muttered.

When she called in sick for the day, she also gave her two weeks, and was told that they didn’t really need her to come in anymore. Apparently, the job was only in existence to help kids in need.

She didn’t like the feeling that gave her, though she couldn’t exactly say why.

She headed back to her room and bed, stopping in the kitchen to return Devon’s phone. When she didn’t find him, she glanced in the other rooms, coming up empty until she returned to his bedroom. He lay in the middle of a sea of rumpled, pure white covers. His discarded boxers had been thrown onto the floor.

“You always sleep naked, huh? Or is this about to be a rejected invitation?” Charity asked with a grin. The room smelled of musty boy. Not unpleasant, but he could stand to open a window. To that end, she did it for him, letting in a soft but sweet-smelling breeze.

“Ah yes, Andy hinted that you found power in playing impossible-to-get. The guy asked you out, and you didn’t even remember him. Don’t worry, I like my women pleasant. You don’t fit the bill, Chastity.”

Crap! That was why Andy was so familiar. Even with the reminder, though, she only vaguely remembered the dinner invitation. Sam had scoffed at the whole scene and pulled her away quickly. Andy had seemed tickled, she remembered, and hadn’t pressed. He’d never approached again, nor had he shot her scowls like other guys she’d rebuffed (she had nothing to wear on a date and didn’t need the distraction anyway—something men didn’t seem to understand or accept).

She placed his phone on the nightstand, and then lingered. “Listen…” She cleared her throat. “Thanks for last night, by the way. I was… I just…”

“Stop talking. I’m trying to sleep.”

She huffed her annoyance, though she didn’t really feel it. Biting her lip, she nodded into the silence. He wasn’t going to let her admit out loud that she’d been afraid. It was appreciated.

“Meeting is at eight o’clock tonight,” Devon mumbled with his eyes closed. “Wear something nice. Oh, that’s right, you don’t have anything.”

She picked up one of his shoes and threw it at his head. She shut the door as he yelled, “Ow!”

Sometimes, violence was extremely gratifying.





Chapter Eighteen





“You’re up,” Devon said as he strolled into the kitchen.

Charity looked up from her red wine reduction sauce.

He sauntered over, rolling up the sleeves on a snug white button-up that hugged his well-defined chest and popping biceps. The bottom was tucked into a pair of Euro-style trousers, hugging his trim waist and accenting his muscular thighs. He’d gelled his hair into that bad-boy, styled-yet-messy look, and the hint of sideburns set off his strong jaw. The way he carried himself bespoke money and prestige. His cultivated demeanor overlaid that raw physical power. Power that didn’t flirt with the fire in her middle now as much as it had in that strange other world.

She said as much.

“The Realm is magical, and so it brings out your magic,” he said, stopping next to her. “It heightens it. When you’re fully into your magic, it’ll probably still be easier to use in the Realm, but you’ll feel it just as strongly in both places.”

She nodded, although it would take a while to get used to talking of magic, she had no doubt.

“You hungry?” she asked, returning to her sauce.

He leaned on the counter, assessing her with a heavy stare. His eyes roved over her, taking in her stained hoodie before drifting down her unfashionably ripped jeans. Just like when he’d stared at her before the party, she felt completely exposed. Laid bare, like he had ripped away all her defenses and could see the girl underneath. The vulnerable, sometimes scared girl who needed a warm body to lie next to when things got out of hand.

Face heating in embarrassment—he’d spotted the holes in her sneakers—she concentrated on stirring the sauce and fervently hoped he’d go away.

“Where’d you get all this food?” he asked.

No such luck on him buggering off, then.

“Brought most of it,” she said, “but found some of it in the cabinets. The wine is old, but I can compensate for that. I threw away half the stuff you had in your fridge. Not that there was much to begin with. It looked like a petri dish in there.”

Still he stared. Was he hoping for a magic trick or something?

“Look, if I’d known you wanted a staring contest, I would’ve brushed my teeth,” she groused.

“Looks like you’re making a gourmet meal.” His gaze roamed her ingredients. “How’d you learn to cook like this off food stamps?”

She gritted her teeth at his suspicious tone, feeling that fire she’d thought had dulled kindle in her middle. Apparently, it had been waiting for him to get on her nerves.

She tried to keep the aggression and defensiveness out of her voice. It was his house and she was a guest—she’d best remember that or she’d get kicked out on her butt.