Page 44 of Can't Bite This Feeling
Alice shrugs. “Hazards of witchcraft.”
We all fall into easy laughter, the kind that comes from surviving too much together.
I never thought I’d laugh again. I thought I’d spend eternity drowning in darkness. But here we are. I’m nobody’s demon now. Just Rapha. Kind-of-vampire. Reformed soul hoarder. Very much in love. Because Drusilla and I are stitched together by something older than hell and gentler than eternity.
So far, Lucifer has left us alone. Maybe even he knows that some resurrections don’t belong to him.
Drusilla’s magic is evolving faster than any of us predicted. Alice says it’s because she came backdifferently. Not throughnecromancy or deals, but through devotion. Love as a catalyst is apparently wildly unpredictable and extremely good for spellwork.
She still has fangs—adorable ones—but her powers are more elemental now. Emotion-based. Unstable in the best way. Gordy calls her a magical mood ring. I call her mine.
As for me? I’ve taken up consulting. Supernatural risk assessment. Soul trap avoidance. I charge in gold, favors, or rare teas. Screaming Woods hasneeds, and I happen to be very good at solving problems that involve fire, portals, and supernatural loopholes.
We have a house just past the edge of town. The manor was too big, too heavy with old shadows. So we built something smaller and brighter with a sunroom. Drusilla insisted. She says even the undead need light.
I asked her once if she missed her old life. She looked at me like I’d asked if she missed being stabbed.
“I have you,” she said simply. “What else could I possibly need?”
She might be right.
Except maybe… one more thing.
“Dru?” I murmur, as she leans against my shoulder, watching Felix drool on Gideon’s shirt. “Do you think we’ll ever…?”
Her head tilts, and her beautiful eyes find mine. “Have children?”
I nod.
She smiles, soft and wild and wicked. “I think the magic that made us came from love. And love creates.”
I stare at her, a flicker of awe blooming beneath my ribs. “So that’s a yes?”
“It’s a maybe with very good odds,” she teases. “We’ll just have to see what kind of miracle we can cook up.”
Drusilla
Rapha shuts the bedroom door behind him, his gaze burning into me. He watches me from the threshold. He’s still in his black button-down, sleeves rolled, shirt untucked, collar open just enough to expose the bite mark I left on his throat three nights ago.
Gods, I love him.
I tilt my head. “You’re staring again.”
He smiles, slow and wicked. “Can you blame me?”
“No. But you could come closer.” I stretch, deliberately arching my back, letting the gauzy slip I’m wearing ride up along my thighs. I see his jaw clench. Excellent.
His eyes rake over me like I’m the first star after an endless dusk. His lips part, and for a moment, he simply stares. Then, low and rough, “Come here.”
I cross to him slowly, hips swaying, letting the silence stretch and crackle. When I reach him, he grips my waist, spins me, and presses me against the cool wood of the door.
“I’ve been thinking about you all day.”
“Just thinking?” I tease.
“Imagining,” he murmurs, voice rough velvet against my ear. “Planning.”
My pulse stutters as his hand skims down my back and cups my ass. His palm is warm. Firm. Possessive. “And what exactly did you plan?”
