Page 29 of Outlaw Witch

If I didn’t already know I was getting myself into trouble with these mages, the current situation would be proof enough.

Weirdly enough, though, I do find myself softening toward his attitude. He seems to be a guy that goes with the flow and he smiles a lot more than anyone I’ve ever met. I might not want to lower my guard around him, but I’m finding I quite like the guy.

Which sucks. It would be a lot easier to turn him down if I hated him or thought he was a malicious dickhead.

While he’s busy with the safe, I take the time to snoop at the photos on the desk. There are a few of a severe-looking guy who’s all sharp angles with salt and pepper hair and kind brown eyes. Beside him is a younger version of him with sandy colored hair and the same eyes. There are also pictures of this younger guy with both a miniature version of Roscoe and a younger Zeph.

“Hey, was this one taken the day that hell froze over?” I call over to Roscoe. He emerges from behind the tapestry with a slight blush from exertion to his cheeks. He holds up an envelope of cash and then proceeds to dance it over to me like a fool.

Once he reaches me, I’m smiling. A smile that only widens when he hands over the money and I quickly skim through it before pocketing it inside my jacket.

“When did hell freeze over?” he asks, leaning close until I can feel the heat of his body against my back and side. He snorts. “Oh zing, this one where Z’s laughing, you mean? Yeah, that’s a good one.”

Zeph looks transformed in the photo, like a totally different guy. All the overly intense grouchiness has melted into a look of pure happiness.

“That was Fabian’s birthday a few years ago.”

Which means that the sandy-haired guy must be Fabian Nightshade himself. I eye the image curiously before glancing over at Roscoe.

“Are we done here?”

“Not quite yet, sweetheart. I do believe I promised you breakfast.”

I’m about to decline when there’s a noise in the corridor outside and Roscoe holds one finger up to my lips.

“Trust me,” he whispers in my ear, and I don’t manage to suppress my resulting full-body shiver. “You won’t want to miss my pancakes.”

He then pulls away, apparently satisfied that whoever was outside is not going to walk in on us, since he raises his voice back to a normal volume.

“Come on, I want to show off my cooking prowess. It only stretches to breakfast foods, so you’re in luck.” Grinning unrepentantly, he links his fingers with mine and then I somehow wind up holding hands with Roscoe Hawkshead.

Maybe it’s the lack of sleep turning my brain to mush, but I let him lead me out of the office and into the elevator where we arrive on the fifteenth floor. He tugs on my hand and I stumble out into an apartment with a large open-plan space and massive windows looking out over Arcanum. It’s all cool tones, blues and grays, very masculine and stylish.

“This is your place?” I ask when Roscoe finally lets go of my hand once we reach the kitchen.

He beams at me. “Sure is. You like it, sweetheart? How about you take a seat while I make some coffee?”

By this point, last night is really catching up with me and I stifle a massive yawn before plopping myself down on a stool at the fancy kitchen island.

A few minutes later, I cradle a mug of coffee while Roscoe prances about the kitchen, mixing up pancakes while whistling loudly.

“Dude, what did we say about using your indoor voice when it’s so damn early?” A deep, raspy voice says from behind me, causing me to spin around and slosh coffee over my hand.

The owner of the unfamiliar voice then steps into the kitchen and my eyes meet a brown-eyed gaze. One I last saw in the photographs downstairs.

Fabian Nightshade in the flesh.

I see Roscoe’s slightly sheepish expression and it clicks.

I know exactly why I’m here.

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