By the time I reach the inn, my bones scream for relief and my stomach demands food. After running a load of laundry through the wash, a good burger and a hot bath helped me settle somewhat. I’m still physically drained, but at least the dizzy spells have backed off. With my hair damp, dressed in a pair of leggings and a T-shirt, the second I exit the bathroom is the same moment a crash sounds from across the room. I look just in time to see him colliding full-on with my poor nightstand, sending the alarm clock flying to the ground. I say poor in reference to the piece of furniture and not the man who crashed into it, because it’s obvious who took the beating here.

“Way to make an entrance,” I murmur as I make my way to the closet. I haven’t forgotten who he is, or the awkward situation I put him in while I was sick the other night, but sarcasm is a great go-to when you want to avoid real confrontation.

“Still working on it.” The purr of his low voice is already gliding under my skin. I turn my head over my shoulder, taking him in.

Something’s different about him tonight. He doesn’t quite sound like the steely, foreboding Death I’ve come to expect. In fact, he even looks a little different. It’s not his clothes, which are the same fitted T-shirt and worn jeans as always. It’s not his hair, which still falls messily over his forehead. It’s not in any one thing I can place, actually, but rather it’s in a series of the tiniest things. His jaw isn’t quite as hard as usual, and his lips are almost relaxed, rather than pulled into a tight line. But it’s his eyes that are the center of my attention. Rich green swirls behind the black-grey; such a vivid and enchanting contrast, and I’m just as mesmerized by it as ever.

“The entrance,” he elaborates, taking my silence for confusion. “I don’t get much of a warning when it happens.”

“That makes two of us.” I tear my eyes away from the green to turn back to the closet. Glad for an excuse to stay occupied, I robotically go through the motions of placing shirts on hangers and setting them on the rail.

“Right,” he mutters after a moment. My ears follow the sound of movement behind me until he comes into my peripheral as he settles in by the window, leaning half of his body against the wall. I watch him out of the corner of my eye. He takes a long, deep breath, gazing outward in silence. It’s like we’re both trying to pretend we accept this strange situation, being so out of control with our own lives.

He may not be up for chitchat, but I don’t want to drown in silence this time. Grams always said that you learn the most about a person by looking in between the lines. Maybe if I can just get him talking . . .

“So what do you think so far?” I glance up at him, keeping my hands busy with the laundry.

“Of what?”

I clear my throat, ignoring the way his hypnotic voice pulls at me. “My world.”

“It’s . . .” His head shifts toward me, tilting. “Bright.”

“Bright?” Turning away from him to sort my folded clothes into drawers, I smile slightly at that answer. “Wow, we’ve certainly made an impression.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and I have to resist the urge to turn my head and look at him. “I’ve . . . not taken the time to really look around.”

I snort, finding more amusement in this conversation than I probably should. Maybe it’s because all the weirdness in my life is finally taking its toll on me, and it turns out humor is a fantastic coping mechanism. Or maybe it’s that starting the evening on a lighter, sarcastic note makes it hard to take anything afterward too seriously. Whatever the reason, my mood is shifting with each moment of our conversation, and I’m rolling with it.

“Well, since you’re here,” I place the last pair of jeans in my bottom drawer and turn to face him, “I may as well give you some more insight.” His eyes narrow, like he’s suspicious—as he should be. “I’m weeks behind on the rituals, so I guess that’s a good place to start.”

Whirling around, I head to the nightstand. I’m totally just winging this, which is not easy when someone like him is watching your every movement, every look. His gaze burns into my back as I pull the drawer open and withdraw a small box of playing cards supplied by the inn. I stroll to the loveseat and plop down, positioning myself into the nook on the right side and crisscrossing my legs. Glancing up at him, I raise an expectant eyebrow. “I’m going to need a hand for this. Rituals cannot be done alone.”

His brows lift, and I feel a small pang of satisfaction at finally being the one to surprise him for a change. “I won’t know what to do.”

Ha, you and me both. “It’s okay.” I pat the empty space beside me. “I can show you.”

He waits a beat, and though his face betrays nothing, I’m sure he’s deliberating whether or not to agree to this.

“Who knows how long you’ll be stuck here this time, and it is my room, so . . . please?” I don’t know if it’s the please that does it or what, but he seems to concede when he gives a small nod and walks toward me.

When he lowers himself beside me, it’s an instant reminder of how drastically his large build dwarfs mine. His broad shoulders take up more than half of the petite loveseat, and though the width of his frame tapers off where his hips narrow, the way his legs are positioned, slightly spread out, counteracts that. He takes a breath and leans back, running a hand through his dark hair, then turns his head and looks straight into my eyes.

Holy hell, suddenly we are way too close to each other. I swear I’m burning up, his fiery heat brushing over every inch of my skin.

“Where do we begin?” he asks, and I take a deep breath. The low sound is even more hypnotic when it’s coming from directly beside me.

“Okay.” I pull my shoulders back, attempting to regain some of the composure he apparently melted right off me. “These,” I hold up the playing cards, “are the key to any modern-day human ritual.”

Once I see that the cards have his attention, I open the red and white box, then carefully pour them into one hand, as though I wouldn’t fathom mistreating something so valuable. I split the deck in half, adopting a formal tone as I fake-explain my actions, shuffling the way Grams taught me years ago.

“I’ll do this part myself, since it really depends on a balanced chi to be effective. This is what we call a bridge shuffle, and it’s one of the more complex things our ancestors teach.” I don’t dare look up at him, knowing I’m about one step away from losing it. I really don’t know how far I can take this. Once my subpar shuffle is complete, I fan out the cards in my fingers and extend them toward him. “Here is where you come in. Pick a card. Any card.”

I don’t know what I expect. For him to somehow realize I’m full of it? To lose his patience and stalk off?

Instead, he stares long and hard at the cards, eyebrows furrowed and lips pressed together, as though my fate is entirely dependent on his next move. “Any card?” he repeats quietly, not breaking his focus.

I shouldn’t find it so captivating, even endearing, seeing him like this: out of his element yet so determined to get it right. “Yep. Memorize the front of the card once you do, and be sure not to show it to me.”

He slowly leans forward, his thigh brushing across my knee as he picks a card. I swallow hard, breaking my gaze away and returning it to the cards remaining in my hands, while he lowers his own to his lap.

“That’s good,” I mumble, splitting them down the middle. With half the deck in one hand and half in the other, I rest my wrists on each crisscrossed thigh. “So, once you have it memorized, slide the card on top of either of these stacks.”

His eyes drop to my thighs, leisurely traveling from one to the other, then back again, practically burning holes straight through my pants in the process. He shifts forward once more, slowly, carefully, sliding it onto the stack in my left hand. A vague vibration from the subtle movement strokes the palm of my hand. Without letting go, he returns his gaze to mine, and my breath catches in my throat. I’ve never seen so much green. It’s like the emerald blaze has backed the black-ice into a corner, and all of the mesmerizing flames are now centered on me.

“Just like this?”

It’s just a question. An ordinary, logical question. But there’s a husky roughness in his tone and a look in those eyes that dares me to . . . to what, exactly?

I nod, my neck suddenly stiff, and my answer comes out as a whisper. “Just like that.”

When he finally removes his hand and leans back against the seat, I release a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. I force my brain to continue functioning, placing the right stack of cards on top of the left. After dividing the deck into four piles, one pile at a time, I spread them out in my fingers to reveal them. “Do you see your card in this stack?” I ask softly.

He only looks down for a second before flicking his eyes back to mine. “No.”

“How about this one?”

“Yes.”

I collect the other piles and realize I have no idea where to set them aside. The loveseat is already small and, with the way we’re both positioned, there’s not enough room on the cushions. “Mind holding these for the rest of the—” I almost blurt out magic trick but catch myself just in time, “um, ritual?”

Bringing my attention back to the last remaining pile before me, I mindlessly extend the extras toward him, setting them down on his warm lap. My grip hasn’t quite released them yet when I hear him clear his throat, feel the friction of fabric moving beneath my fingers as his body shifts. I finally look in the direction of my hand and am instantly mortified.

My hand. Is on. His penis.

I mean, not really, but it’s pretty damn close. Between the other night and tonight, it’s like I’m hosting my own private show called How Many Times Can Lou Touch Him Inappropriately. Speaking of which, I should probably move right about now. I yank my fingers away so fast the cards almost spill from his lap to the ground, but he catches them with a quick move of his hand.

“Oh my god,” I groan, reluctantly meeting his gaze. “I’m sorry. I swear that wasn’t, like, me making a move or something.” Does he even know what that means?

Apparently so. He presses his lips together in a tight line, jaw ticking. His eyes still burn a fierce green, but they don’t give anything away. “Don’t worry about it,” he all but grinds out. “What’s next?”

“Right.” I glance back down at the remaining cards, ridiculously thankful he didn’t drag that out like he definitely could have. I divide them again, then do all the separating and discarding Grams walked me through, and when I get to that last card, I pause. Regaining my formal tone, I say, “Now, everything hangs on this next part. If I get this wrong, my status in our, um, human rankings will be lowered.”

His eyes narrow, and I wonder if I’ve pushed it too far. Maybe I’m being too obvious. But then his expression softens. “Go ahead.”

Phew. I flip the card so it’s face up, then lower my voice just enough to sound serious. “Was this your card?”

I watch as his face goes from hard, masked, to focused, then . . . surprised? Relieved? “Yes,” he says with a satisfied nod. “That’s the one.” He brings his gaze back up to meet mine, a lightness dancing in his eyes that I’ve never seen before.

That’s when I see it. It starts slow, the corner of his lips lifting. Then the other corner lifts to match it, and butterflies swirl in my stomach as I realize he’s actually smiling at me. A definite, even sincere, smile. It’s not what I’d expect; understated and almost shy, with a single dimple on his right cheek that manages to change his entire look. In a split second, he somehow went from intimidating and deadly to boyish and endearing.

“You did it,” he murmurs, green gaze roaming my face.

I find myself grinning back, soaking up his smile like the first glimpse of sunlight after a long, rough winter.

Oh, boy. I’m in trouble.