“Was that a pun?” He squints, his lips curving ever so slightly.

I laugh. “Yes, and a really bad one at that.”

He leans against the doorjamb, looking me over slowly, leisurely, taking a long deep breath before he says, “Listen, I hate to admit this, especially to you of all people, since you’ve pretty much emasculated me enough for one lifetime, but I might need a little help getting set up. The meds are kicking in and I wasn’t much good when I was sober and one-handed, so I can’t imagine how I’ll fare now. It’ll only take a minute, two at the most, and then you can get back to Damen and on with your night.”

I frown, wondering why he just said that. Switching on the lights and closing the door behind me as I follow him inside, gazing around the small cozy space, amazed to find myself inside a real, authentic Laguna Beach cottage. The kind with old brick fireplaces and large picture windows. The kind you don’t see in these parts anymore.

“Cool, isn’t it?” He nods, reading my face. “It was built in 1958. Lina picked it up cheap, a long time ago, before all the money and reality shows rolled in.”

I head for the sliding glass door that leads to a nice brick patio that leads to a steep grassy slope, a set of stairs, and a slightly moonlit ocean beyond.

“She rents it to me cheap, but my dream is to buy it someday. She says she’ll only sell if I promise not to turn it into yet another Tuscan-style duplex. As if.” He laughs.

I turn away from the window and wander into his kitchen, flicking on a light and opening a few cupboards until I find the one containing a set of drinking glasses. Looking around, searching for a bottle of water, only to find him standing so close I can make out each individual fleck in his eyes.

“Isn’t it easier to just manifest it?” he says, voice thick, low, deep.

I gaze at him, not sure what I’m bothered by more, his intimate proximity, the longing in his tone, or the way he was able to sneak up on me.

“I—I thought I’d just get it the old-fashioned way—if that’s okay? Guaranteed to taste the same,” I mumble, the words clumsy on my lips, hoping he’s too hopped up on pain medication to see just how much his nearness is affecting me.

He continues to stand there, gaze steady, giving nothing away. Voice groggy and deep when he says, “Ever—what are you?”

I freeze, fingers gripping the glass so hard I’m afraid it might break in my hand. Focusing on the tiled floor, the small table to the right, the den just beyond, anywhere but at him. The silence hanging so thick between us, I only want to break it when I say, “I—I can’t tell you.”

“So, it’s not just the book then, it’s—something else.”

My eyes meet his, immediately recognizing my blunder, how I basically just admitted I’m not at all normal when I could’ve just blamed it on magick instead. But the truth is, he wouldn’t have bought it. He knew something was up from the first day we met, long before he ever lent me that book.

“Why didn’t you tell me The Book of Shadows was written in code?” I say, eyes narrowed, putting him back on the defensive again.

“I did.” He breaks the gaze and moves away, annoyance stamped on his face.

“No, you told me it was written in the Theban code and that it had to be intuited to be understood. But what you failed to mention is that it’s actually protected by a code—a code that has to be cracked in order to see what’s truly inside. So what gives? Why didn’t you tell me about that? It’s a pretty major detail to leave out, don’t you think?”

He leans against the tiled counter, shaking his head when he says, “Excuse me, but am I under suspicion again? Because, correct me if I’m wrong, but I was under the impression that when you sliced me open, you pretty much determined I was one of the good guys.”

I fold my arms and squint. “No, I determined you’re not a rogue. I never said you were good.” He looks at me, striving for patience, but I’m far from done yet. “You also failed to mention how you got the book—how it ended up in your hands.”

He shrugs, gaze fixed, voice steady, measured, when he says, “I told you—I got it from a friend, a few years back.”

“And does this friend have a name—like maybe Roman, perhaps?”

He laughs, though it comes out more like a grunt. His annoyance ringing loud and clear when he says, “Oh, I see, you’re still convinced I’m part of his tribe. Well, excuse me for saying so, Ever, but I thought we were through with all that?”

I fold my arms across my chest, allowing the glass to dangle from my fingers. “Listen, Jude, I’d like to trust you, really I would. But the other night when—” I pause, realizing I can’t really continue that thread. “Well, anyway, Roman said something about the book once belonging to him, and I really need to know if that’s where you got it—if he somehow sold it to you?”

He reaches toward me, the few fingers that still actually work snatching the glass right out of my grasp. “My only connection to Roman is through you. I don’t know what else to tell you, Ever.”

I squint, scrutinizing his aura, his energy, his body language, adding it all up as he heads for the sink, and coming to the conclusion that he really is telling the truth, not hiding a thing.

“Tap?” I ask, seeing him glance over his shoulder at me. “It’s been a while since I saw someone do that. Not since I left Oregon.”