Page 65 of Strike It Witch

A golden sheen glided over his eyes, there and gone so fast I thought I’d imagined it. His expression went ice cold. “Hartman would’ve killed you if I hadn’t.”

“No. He wouldn’t have. He’d have hurt me, but he wouldn’t kill me. Your father wouldn’t let him. Alpha Floyd knows the information I’ve got on him is on a hair trigger.”

A muscle pulsed in Ronan’s cheek.

“You knew he wouldn’t, too. So, I’ll ask again. Why did you come for me today?”

Ronan leaned back in his chair. “I want you to finish this job for the alpha. To help Gladys. You can’t do that dead.”

So he was sticking to the “Mason would’ve killed me” reasoning.

“You can tell me the truth, you know,” I said, “about anything you want.”

“I did.”

“So, it’s like that?” I repeated.

He gave nothing away, verbally or non.

“Ronan, if you only know one thing about me, let it be this.” I stood, placed my hands on his desk, and leaned over it. “Ineverbetray my friends.”

The golden sheen swept over his intent green-hazel gaze again. There one second, gone the next. “Are you saying we’re friends, beautiful, beguiling Betty?”

I shook my head at the obvious deflection.

“All I’m saying is you can trust me.” I held his gaze as I reached across the desk and set a fresh lavender bud on his closed laptop.

Then I tipped my head at him and walked out.

DidI just tell Ronan Pallás that I’m his friend?

All the way home, I asked myself that question. I followed it up with the obvious:Am I his friend?

There was no denying that I found him interesting. And I would’ve had to be made of stone not to have noticed how physically attractive he was. But looks alone had never done it for me. To take that crucial step away from mere attraction and move into real friendship, I needed more.

Ronan had given me plenty of reasons to like him.

And a few reasons not to.

And still, I trust him. Even worse, I want him to trust me, too.

I parked the Mini and trudged up to my trailer, grabbing my mail—bills, of course—on the way. After my eventful morning, I had two priorities. Shower and a nap. I wanted to wash the blood out of my hair, and I needed rest before the god summoning this evening. Also, food. I needed food.

So, three priorities.

Make that four. I also had a call to make—or rather, return.

“Dance With Me” by Orleans floated through my trailer. It was a gentle song with a nostalgic vibe. I hummed the chorus as I made a peanut butter and boozy jam sandwich and sat down at my table with it, a glass of iced mint tea, and my phone.

“Hey, Betty. Found someone willing to part with their Persephone’s Ear,” Beau said. “The guy needs the money, so he’s willing to sell it to you fast, no questions asked. I’ve done business with him before. You can trust him.”

“That’s great news.”

“Figured you’d be happy to hear that. Also, a mage came in here asking about the Siete Saguaros. Said he was interested and took your number. Thought you’d want to know.”

“Thanks, Beau. Appreciate the heads-up. Can you text me the information on the lamp?”

“Sure. He’ll overnight it, so it should be there tomorrow afternoon, I’d guess. Contingent on payment.” He rattled off anasking price that would clean out every last cent in my checking, savings, and money market accounts.

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