Page 3 of Reptile Dysfunction
“What?”
“Your eyes. They change color when you’re angry.” She makes another note. “5:15 tomorrow. I’ll buy the coffee.”
She walks away before I can refuse, her heels clicking confidently across the wet tiles without a single wobble.
My snakes watch her go with varying degrees of interest—some suspicious, others almost appreciative. One particularly rebellious one at the back of my head actually sighs.
“Unbelievable,” I mutter.
The snake gives an unrepentant wiggle. I already know I’ll be at that coffee shop tomorrow, and so do my snakes. For a guy who used to intimidate rule breakers for a living, I’m doing a pretty poor job of scaring off one determined reporter.
Maybe that’s the real problem. Five years after the Revelation, I’m not sure who I’m supposed to be anymore. The role I was born for no longer exists, and I’m left teaching swimming and avoiding anniversary celebrations that only remind me of everything I’ve lost.
But something about Sloane Whitaker’s determined gaze makes me think she might actually understand that—which is precisely why I should stay away from her.
Too bad I’ve never been good at doing what I should.
Chapter Two
Sloane
My Louboutins click across the YMCA parking lot as the smell of chlorine slowly fades from my nostrils. The encounter with Thaddeus Fangborn plays on repeat in my mind—those piercing amber eyes, the way his snakes moved independently yet somehow in harmony, and most intriguingly, the flash of vulnerability beneath all that gorgeous, intimidating muscle.
The real story is there. Not in the sanitized, community-friendly narrative my father wants for the Revelation Day celebration.
“Sloane!”
Speak of the devil. I turn just as my father’s sleek town car pulls up, the engine idling like it’s already plotting my demise. He waves from the backseat, his campaign smile already in place.
Classic ambush—Dad’s getting predictable.
“I thought you were meeting with advertisers all afternoon,” I say, sliding into the plush leather seat beside him.
“Finished early.” He straightens his already impeccable tie. “Thought I’d give you a ride home and check on your progress with the celebration piece. Did you speak with the younger Gorgon brother?”
My father never does anything without calculation. He probably had his assistant monitoring my whereabouts. The joys of owning a local newspaper combined with small-town politics.
“I did. He was teaching swimming lessons.” Twenty-seven years as Charles Whitaker’s daughter has taught me to keep my mouth shut when necessary.
“Wonderful!” He claps his hands together once, a gesture he uses at town events to convey enthusiasm. “The monsters-as-community-contributors angle is exactly what we need. Teachers, librarians, public servants—it reinforces the integration narrative beautifully. This might be the year Harmony Glen finally gets featured onGood Morning America.”
“Frankly, I like our town the way it is. I’m not sure we need to be in the national spotlight.”
My dad looks at me as though I’ve grown another head. The idea of staying out of the limelight would never occur to him in a hundred years.
My thoughts dart back to Thad, the notebook feeling heavy in my purse, weighted with questions I didn’t ask. What happened to the monsters who couldn’t or wouldn’t integrate? What about those whose abilities made humans uncomfortable?
“He doesn’t seem particularly eager to participate in the celebration,” I say absently
Father waves this concern away. “His brother is already involved. Family loyalty will bring him around. Besides, we need representation from the more… visually distinctive monster residents.”
Translation: We need scary-looking monsters doing non-threatening things to make humans feel safe.
“He was an enforcer before the Revelation.” The words slip out before I can stop them.
Dad’s smile falters for just a second. “Where did you hear that term?”
“Research.” The satisfaction of catching him off-guard is short-lived. “What exactly did enforcers do, Dad?”
