Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
W aking up in the luxury of a memory foam mattress and under a thousand pounds of blankets are life goals I didn’t realize I should have had. I’d set my sights on just having a roof over my head; I should have been aiming higher: a bed I never want to get out of.
Even better? The smell of both coffee and bacon permeating the air.
Even though I’m absolutely loath to leave the bed, the siren call of breakfast pulls me out of my warm cocoon. I almost trip over nothing as I get my bearings, but I manage to make it to the bathroom without taking a header into the floor or a wall or any of the random tables all over the place.
Fox’s brownstone is beautiful and clean, and my man has some kind of obsession with tables because there are at least five flat surfaces of some kind in every room.
Even the hallway has a couple of thin wall tables.
The bathroom has one built to sit over the back of the toilet and one directly across from it.
Now I’m not one to judge. A man wants to decorate his house with tables, that’s his business, but it’s not like he uses them for anything.
They’re purely some kind of messed up idea of decoration because he doesn’t put anything on them.
Not flowerpots, not mail, not even lamps. They just exist in his space.
Ok, it’s a weird obsession. I can admit that, but it isn’t unlivable.
I can learn to live with his strange collection of furniture-mesas.
The sacrifices I’d make to ensure the happiness of the love of my life are almost endless.
I’d probably stop just short of actual human sacrifice.
Probably. I mean, it’s not like I have a problem with his profession, so if I suddenly discovered he was killing all those people as a ritual, I might not stop at human sacrifice…
Nah. He doesn’t ritually kill people. They attacked him first before he justifiably defended himself with extreme prejudice.
As I wander into the kitchen, Fox turns from where he’s standing at the stove scrambling eggs into a pan full of sautéed vegetables. He looks me up and down before jerking his head to the coffee pot where an empty cup awaits me next to a carton of half and half.
I tip a bit of the half and half into my cup and then fill the rest with coffee, sipping the brew and sighing because it’s definitely the best cup I’ve ever had. Smooth and robust and everything a cup of coffee should be.
Damn, I’m going to be so spoiled living here.
And yes, I am moving in even though Fox and I haven’t discussed living arrangements yet.
I don’t see the point in beating around the bush.
I am going to marry the man, and yeah, maybe we haven’t even kissed yet, but that is going to happen and then we’ll move on to hand jobs and eventually fucking, and between all that physical stuff we’ll get to know each other and fall in love, and he’ll give me the biggest diamond engagement ring I’ve ever seen and we’ll get married and live happily ever after.
So I don’t see the point in trying to live apart when we’re destined to cohabitate for the rest of our lives.
Sitting at the smaller of the dining tables, the one in the breakfast nook that overlooks the back garden, I watch the birds taking their morning baths in the fountain at the center of the garden.
Someone, presumably Fox, has scattered seed in the yard, and a flock of sparrows are enjoying the offering.
Along the edges of the tall walls, a cornucopia of food plants thrive, heavy with their bounty.
When Fox sets a plate in front of me, I match the vegetables in the scramble to the ones in the garden and sigh happily.
Homegrown food is always more flavorful than what grocers get.
Picking up my fork, I point to the garden, then Fox, then my plate and give him my curious expression.
He follows my line of questioning because we’re soulmates and he gets me even when the question isn’t one hundred percent clear.
“It’s slightly safer to grow my own food.
” He pauses, examining me for something.
He must find what he’s looking for or decides that it doesn’t matter.
“My property is warded against attack. No one who intends to harm me can cross my property line.” He waves at the interior of his home.
This isn’t a narrow brownstone crushed in with five others just like it; it’s been remodeled so that it’s a triple wide expanse of space and luxury. “I own the whole building.”
Listen, I’m not dumb and I read incessantly because homelessness is boring as fuck and libraries are free.
In books, “warded” means magic, and it’s clear from the way Fox paused before speaking that he was saying something important.
Hence I’m forced to seriously consider the idea that magic and spell craft are something Fox believes in, and being the practical man he is, I very much expect that in about three seconds I’ll have to accept that magic is real.
Ok, yeah, that sucks. Paradigm shifts can be painless—my last one was fine—but damn. Jealousy is an ugly thing. And yes, I am absolutely jealous of any and all magic users, because I’ve spent all of my adult life damn near powerless, homeless, and barely scraping by.
Goddammit.
I sigh and drop my chin to my chest, angry and jealous and maybe a little sad.
“Magic is real,” Fox murmurs, proving that his magic is not of the psychic variety, since I don’t need to be convinced.
I scoff and roll my eyes, and those fuckers betray me by dropping actual tears. Offended by the saline on my cheeks, I dash the droplets away as quickly as possible. Since I didn’t bring my phone, I make grabby hands at him.
Fox stares at me in horror, which is the most emotive I’ve seen him, and it kind of cracks me up. I make the motion of typing on a phone and demand his again. Relief flashes across his face before he gets his expression back under control and slides his phone across the table.
I’m just jealous. I’ve spent my entire life powerless and if I’d had even a kernel of magical power, I would have had more power than I’ve ever had.
And that’s the truth.
He reads my explanation and then grunts before setting his phone midway between us. “You’re not powerless now. Harbingers are…” He pauses as he searches for the right words. “Respected. Untouchable.”
I hope that’s not literally true, because I have plans to be touched a whole hell of a lot by this man.
He must read my expression because a smirk makes a brief appearance before he hides it behind his coffee cup.
“I mean, no one in my world can harm you. Harbingers are protected. You’re warded too.
” My disbelief must show on my face because my normally breviloquent man explains in detail.
“Weapons can’t touch you; you can’t ingest poisons, no one can lay a hand on you who intends harm.
You have power now. It’s passive, but it’s yours. ”
So, I’m indestructible?
I slide the phone I snatched up to write that back to him.
He nods once. “As long as you’re my Harbinger. You’ll be able to go back to your life if you choose not to continue after your trial period.”
I give him my as-if look and smile. This whole magic thing just got a little more awesome.
After breakfast, which is delicious, I shower and dress in one of the suits I find hanging in the closet in my room. Before I fix my hair and try to mimic the make-up from yesterday, I shoot Fox a text.
Me: At some point, I need to go retrieve my stuff.
Future Husband: I’ll send someone unless you need to do it yourself.
Me: How will they know what belongs to me?
Future Husband: Your stuff won’t smell like the lessee of the apartment.
Me: Valid . Leave Elijah a note warning him that his ex is a stalker and thank him for hosting me. I might have been squatting, but I don’t want to be rude.
Of course, now I’m wondering if he’s talking about magic sniffers or actual sniffers like dogs, but you know what?
I want to find out on my own. I love a good mystery, and I literally cannot think of anything more mysterious than magic being real.
How deep does that go? Are there werewolves?
Dragons? Vampires? Demons? Or is it only witchy stuff like spells and incantations?
I want to know, but I want to see if I can figure it out without asking too many questions.
Oh, I’ll ask, but not outright. It’ll be a game. What can I figure out and what do I have to ask about? How many points do I earn if I get something right without asking? Hmm. I think the end game should be fifty points. One point if I’m partially correct, two if I guess right.
This will be fun.
My phone buzzes and I set the eyeliner down to check it.
Depot: 3223 C St. 10:34 am. Cornelius Gavin Stauffer.
I assume this is my next assignment, so I quickly finish with the eyeliner and head out of the bathroom to the living room where Fox is strapping on his weapons.
I put my boots on and check my pocket for my phone and wallet, then turn to him.
I have an hour to get to my assignment, but I have no idea what he wants me to do when I get there.
He doesn’t pause in arming himself. “You should head out. Take a cab.”
That’s all he gives me to work with, so I shrug, stride over to him and force him to lean down long enough to kiss his cheek then step back, smiling brightly as I tap my own cheek in expectation.
Fox huffs a breath of laughter and leans down to kiss my cheek. “See you there,” he whispers as he pulls away.