Chapter 7
Chapter
Seven
Winter
Iset my empty plate on the coffee table, surprised at how hungry I'd been.
The vending machine had produced a decent meal of roast chicken, garlic mashed potatoes, and some vegetable medley that didn't taste like it came from a machine.
I watched as Rook finished his fourth helping, the man ate like he was storing up for winter.
I had always heard shifters' appetites were insane, but never had a chance to experience it.
After placing our dishes in the sink, Rook settled into an armchair across from the couch, his large frame making the furniture look comically small. He sat with his back to the wall, giving him a clear view of both the door and the windows. Always vigilant, this one.
The silence stretched between us, not exactly uncomfortable but not relaxed either. I found myself studying him. The perpetual furrow between his brows, the way his amber eyes constantly scanned the room, the tension he carried in his shoulders like he was always ready to fight or flee.
"So," I broke the silence, stretching my legs out. "Why are you a lone wolf? Aren't werewolves supposed to be pack animals?"
Rook's eyes snapped to mine, his expression hardening. He just stared at me, unblinking, like I'd asked him to describe his most traumatic childhood memory in explicit detail.
After what felt like an eternity, he grunted and looked away, jaw clenched.
"Seriously?" I huffed. "That's all I get? A grunt?"
No response. Of course.
"Fine. Keep your wolfy secrets," I stood up, wincing as my knee protested. I carried Frank's bowl to the kitchenette counter, setting it down carefully. "I'm just trying to make conversation since we're stuck here together."
I turned back to face Rook, who was still doing his best statue impression.
"Look, I'm bored out of my mind. I need a computer or something to do or I swear I'll start singing. And trust me, you do NOT want that." I crossed my arms. "I once made a music teacher cry in the third grade. She said I had creative pitch interpretation."
Rook rolled his eyes, but I caught the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. Was that almost a smile?
Progress!
He pulled out his phone, a chunky, military-grade thing that looked like it could survive being run over by a tank, and dialed a number.
"Milo," his voice was gruff. "Bring an agency computer for Winter when you come to relieve me." A pause. "No, not one of the haunted ones from IT." Another pause. "I don't care if they have better graphics. Just bring a normal laptop." He hung up without saying goodbye.
"Thanks," I was genuinely surprised by the gesture.
He grunted again. Back to square one.
"I'm going to take a shower," I announced. "Try not to let any cultists in while I'm gone."
The bathroom was small but functional, with a surprisingly good water pressure.
The hot water felt amazing on my aching muscles, washing away the lingering smell of the medical facility and the memory of that cultist's eyes.
I stayed under the spray until my fingers pruned, trying not to think about prophecies or chalices or choices.
When I emerged, wrapped in a towel, I realized I'd forgotten to grab clean clothes. I peeked out the bathroom door.
"Um, Rook? Can you turn around for a second while I grab some pajamas?"
He turned his back without comment, facing the wall.
I scurried to the bag of my stuff on the table and pulled out my favorite pajamas, soft flannel pants covered in cartoon teddy bears wearing bow ties, and a matching button-up top.
They were ridiculous and childish, and the most comfortable things I owned.
I ducked back into the bathroom, changed quickly, and returned to the living room, running a brush through my damp hair.
When Rook turned around, his eyes widened. For a moment, he just stared at me, and then, to my complete shock, he burst out laughing. Not a chuckle or a snicker, but full-throated, head-thrown-back laughter that transformed his entire face.
The sound was so unexpected, so rich and warm, that I froze mid-brush stroke, staring at him. His eyes crinkled at the corners, and the perpetual scowl vanished, replaced by genuine amusement.
"So this is what it takes to get a laugh out of you?" I snorted, putting my hands on my hips in mock offense. "My fashion choices?"
His laughter tapered off, but the ghost of a smile remained. "They have bow ties," he pointed out, as if that explained everything.
"They're sophisticated bears," I settled back onto the couch. "Very distinguished."
The atmosphere in the room had shifted; something in the air was lighter now.
"So, before I became the walking disaster you see before you, I had a normal life," I wasn't expecting him to respond. "I was a university library assistant. Not the most glamorous job, but I loved it."
To my surprise, Rook didn't immediately shut down the conversation. He leaned back in his chair, watching me with what might have been interest.
Encouraged, I continued. "I've always loved books.
There's something magical about them, even the non-magical ones.
Each one is like a little world you can visit whenever you want.
" I smiled. "My favorite part of the job was helping students find exactly what they needed, especially the nervous freshmen who were too intimidated to ask the professors. "
"You were good at it?" Rook's question caught me off guard.
"Yeah, I was. I know that library like the back of my hand. Knew," I corrected myself, a pang of loss hitting me. "I don't know if I'll ever go back now."
"You miss it."
It wasn't a question, but I nodded anyway. "I do. But I always had bigger plans, you know? I wanted to open my own bookstore someday." My hands started gesturing as excitement built. "Not just any bookstore. A place where humans and supernatural folks could both find books they love."
As I described my dream store, my hands flew through the air, painting invisible pictures.
"I'd have a special section for grimoires, but also the latest romance novels.
Magical history texts next to human biographies.
And a cafe that serves both blood-infused coffee for vampires and regular lattes for humans. "
I was so caught up in my vision that I didn't notice how wild my gestures had become until I smacked myself right in the face with my own hand.
"Ow!" I rubbed my cheek, embarrassed. "See what happens when I get excited? Hazardous to myself."
Rook was watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read, something softer than his usual scowl, but still guarded.
"It's a good dream," his voice was quiet.
"Yeah?" I smiled, surprised by his support. "I've been saving for years. I'm about halfway to what I need for a down payment on a space. Or I was, before," I gestured to my arm where the blue markings had faded to a faint glow. "Before I became a walking reality distortion."
"You'll still get your store," Rook spoke with unexpected certainty.
"How do you know?"
He shrugged. "You're stubborn. And you hit yourself in the face rather than stop talking about it. That's dedication."
I laughed, and to my delight, the corner of his mouth twitched upward again.
"I'd design the space to be accessible too," I continued, warming to my subject again but trying to keep my hands under control by sitting on them.
"Wide aisles for wheelchairs, lower shelves, braille sections.
And a community room for book clubs and readings.
I want it to be a place where everyone feels welcome, you know? Where people can just belong."
Something flickered in Rook's eyes at that word belong, and for a moment, I thought he might share something personal. But then his expression shuddered again, the wall coming back up.
"You should get some rest," his tone back to its usual gruffness. "It's been a long day."
I nodded, disappointed but not surprised. Whatever brief connection we'd shared was over, at least for now. But I'd seen behind the mask, if only for a moment, seen the man who could laugh at teddy bear pajamas and listen to someone else's dreams with genuine interest.
As I settled onto the couch and pulled a blanket over myself, I glanced over at Rook. He'd resumed his vigilant posture, eyes on the door, but something had changed. The tension in his shoulders seemed less severe, his expression less harsh.
Progress, score.