“I’m not reading everything everything,” Cleo warned.
“Prude?” Ian asked, a challenge in his voice. His eyes still held their laughter.
Cleo sat up straight, realized what she’d done, and then relaxed deliberately in the chair. She went to take a drink, and realized she was out of tea in her water bottle.
“Hold that thought, I need a refill,” she said. As she left the room, she asked Ian, “Would you… Do you need anything to drink?” Wearing the hostess costume always fit her oddly. She felt conspicuous, and she trained her eyes on his left ear instead of his eyes.
“Yeah?” Ian sounded pleased. His ear dipped to the side. “Bring me back something. Your choice. Anything’s good.”
In the kitchen, Siobhan was launching herself into a huge salad. She stabbed the lettuce and tomatoes with fervor.
“Your ice tea is bullshit,” Siobhan said around a mouthful of cucumbers.
Cleo froze at the fridge door. Her pitcher of tea wasn’t there. It was sitting next to Siobhan.
“But I kind of like it, too, I guess? Is there booze in it or something? Or, what’s that not-marijuana stuff called? CDB? No, CBD. Is there CBD oil in it?”
“Why do you think that?”
Siobhan peered in her cup, thoughtful, and took another small sip. “It burns, but feels really good. But I don’t feel drunk, exactly?”
Cleo sagged against the table. “I bet it does. I’m going to have some more of it myself. You can definitely drink it. Drink gallons of it, if you like.”
“What’s in it?”
Cleo considered how to explain it. ‘Magic’ wouldn’t fly. ‘Possible shifter spellwork to mitigate the curse you don’t believe in’ definitely wouldn’t go, either. She decided on the closest possible truth.
“Herbal remedy from Ian’s people,” she said. Cleo refilled her mug and snagged a soda for Ian. When she left the kitchen, Siobhan was taking another long pull of tea. Cleo was going to need those ingredients from Ian soon. They were definitely going to run out today.
Chapter Eighteen
In the office, the walls seemed especially close with Ian there. He tipped his head back against the wall, eyes closed, and she launched into reading the book aloud. The book was, in a word, stupid. It was a slender novel, meant to be consumed quickly and discarded just as fast. They kept laughing at the ridiculous prose.
“No, he really wrote that! ‘Her cone-shaped breasts heaved...,” she trailed off, her stomach muscles hurting from laughing so hard.
Ian started wheezing.
Cleo had forgotten how much fun it was laughing with another person. Ian shot her a glance and gasped out “cone-shaped!” as he slapped his thigh.
Most of the book was ridiculous, in fact. Cleo knew there was something good in there, and they bickered about what that might be on their way to the kitchen for a break for dinner. Siobhan had left them sandwiches in the refrigerator.
“Where’s your sister?” Ian asked before taking another huge bite of his sandwich. He had table manners, Cleo could admit, in a focused sort of way.
“Why are you here?” Cleo couldn’t help but ask.
Ian looked up from his sandwich, eyebrows raised. He chewed thoughtfully, swallowed.
“Because I’m hungry? Your sister made sandwiches?”
Cleo just stared at him.
He set down the sandwich with a mournful glance.
“More like, why am helping you?” He sighed. “A mix of reasons, I suppose. At first, you were my cute, weird neighbor. Your Nan complicated matters with my pack. I suppose I wanted to show them that you’re good. I think you’re good.”
“That’s it? I’m so good?”
He raised his eyes to the ceiling. Cleo got the distinct impression he was embarrassed.
“When my mom split, my aunt and the pack stepped up. It was hard, things were horrible, but I wasn’t alone. Same with my ex. I was never alone.” Cleo felt her face redden. “I… don’t think you had the same experience. I think that would be hard.” He caught her eye. “I want to protect you. I want to make things right for you.”
Cleo flinched inwardly. No one ever told her how uncomfortable it was to be seen by someone. To hear their story and have them understand your story in return. She stood and carried her plate to the sink. The silence between them was bulky and she felt its heft between them as they walked in silence to her office.
“Listen,” she said. Cleo took a breath, and then tried again. “Okay. Thanks.”
“That’s it?”
“For now. .
They went back to the book. It wasn’t quite as funny as before. Now, when the werewolf husband licked her thighs like an animal, Cleo avoided looking at Ian. He kept clearing his throat, and read on, his words fast and rushed together.
It was after the dramatic wedding scene that Ian started the section that Cleo needed. She told him to slow down and re-read it, and Ian obliged.
“The power of the wolf, of course, is in its terrible ability to change. The wolf-man moves from one form to the next. It’s powered by the spellwork in his blood, and the fluids of his body. Paired with the full moon, it is unstoppable. Gladis watched with horror as her husband and master snarled at her, ruby eyes dripping with hunger for her smooth flesh. She needed something to end the change. Her fingers scrambled for the smooth stones in the little voo-doo bag. She grabbed the largest one, green, blue, and gold striations on a jagged edge. “Back, beast!” she cried. Her love, maddened with insane hunger: for her body, for her flesh, flinched away. She held it out like a talisman, and when he crept closer, she threw it at his freakish head. There, a ripple of man. There, a flicker of humanity. If he planted his seed within her that night, who knows what she would become?”
Ian raised his head. “What does that tell you?”
“We need labradorite,
