Page 14 of Reptile Dysfunction
She walks out, leaving me to wonder exactly when I lost control of this situation. Though if I’m honest with myself, that probably happened the moment she walked into my pool wearing thousand-dollar shoes and asking questions nobody else dared—or cared—to ask.
“Well,” Iris says from the doorway where apparently all three members of the Snoopy Sisterhood have been watching, “that was better than cable.”
I grab my water bottle and stalk past them, my snakes still hopelessly oriented toward the spot where Sloane disappeared.
“Don’t forget to stretch extra tonight,” Dorothy calls after me. “Pilates uses muscles you didn’t know you had!”
She’s not wrong. But as I limp to my next class, I’m more concerned about the muscles in my chest that tighten every time I think about seven o’clock.
These feelings are dangerous. Sloane isn’t just a beautiful woman with a talent for asking the right questions—she’s the mayor’s daughter, a journalist with an agenda, and exactly the kind of complication I’ve spent five years avoiding.
I’ve been built to intimidate. To protect.
Not to want.
And definitely not to want someone who sees too much.
By the time I finish my final session and leave the Y, the sun is already setting. My back aches from the day’s activities, my snakes are doing that ridiculous swaying thing they do when they’re looking forward to something pleasant, and I’ve stopped pretending I have a choice in what happens next.
These feelings are dangerous. Sloane isn’t just a beautiful woman with a talent for asking the right questions—she’s the mayor’s daughter, a journalist with an agenda, and exactly the kind of complication I’ve spent five years avoiding.
But as I walk to my motorcycle, checking the time on my phone, I know the truth: seven o’clock can’t come fast enough. And when I pull up to her gate, my snakes will be reaching for her before she even climbs on behind me.
Sloane Whitaker’s danger isn’t that she’s unafraid of me. It’s that she makes me wish I were the kind of monster who deserved her trust.
Chapter Six
Sloane
Later, sitting at the antique desk in my room, staring at the first draft of my official Revelation Day article, all I can think about is how Thaddeus’s snakes didn’t take their eyes off of me during the entire lesson. Are they little manifestations of Thad himself, or do they have personalities of their own? The cursor blinks at me as I attempt to write the version of monster integration my father finds suitable for theTribune—scrubbed clean and safe for public consumption.
The other window on my laptop shows the growing visitor count on HarmonyUncensored.com. My first post about enforcer culture has already generated dozens of comments, many from monsters sharing their own pre-Revelation experiences. The real story is unfolding beautifully, but it’s not the one I’m supposed to be writing.
A knock at my door makes me quickly minimize both windows. “Come in.”
My mother wheels herself into the room, looking elegant even in her recovery wear. “Working late again?”
“Just finishing some edits.” The lie comes easily after years of managing parental expectations. “How was PT?”
“Brutal, but effective.” She maneuvers her wheelchair next to my desk with practiced grace. The docs are baffled at her slow recovery, but she’s doing everything they ask. “Your father said you missed after-dinner drinks with Bradley again.”
“I was preparing to interview a source.” Technically true, even if most of that interview involved watching Thaddeus’s muscles flex during Pilates. “The anniversary piece needs multiple perspectives.”
Mom’s eyes narrow with interest. “The Fangborn brother? The one who isn’t a librarian?”
“Thaddeus.” His name feels intimate on my tongue. “He was an enforcer before the Revelation.”
“I remember.” At my surprised look, she smiles. “Your father likes to pretend the messier aspects of integration never happened, but some of us paid attention. The Gorgons were instrumental in keeping the peace during the transition.”
“You knew about enforcers?”
“Suspected. There were always rumors about strange things in Harmony Glen—teenagers who suddenly avoided certain areas, troublemakers who became model citizens overnight.” She adjusts her robe, a tell that she’s choosing her words carefully. “Your father prefers his version of history. Clean, simple, and politic-friendly. But real change is never that tidy.”
My throat tightens unexpectedly. “Is that why you’ve never questioned my articles? Even when they don’t adhere to the party line?”
“Sweetheart, I’ve read every word you’ve written since your first editorial for the school paper. Including your recent anonymous blog posts.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “How did you—”
