Chapter 5
I’d been in Cloverton for nearly two weeks, and two things had become abundantly clear:
First, my “research” had taken a decidedly unscientific turn, involving significantly more time in Rafferty’s bed (and office, and storeroom, and once memorably against the back wall of the pub after closing) than in the archives.
Second, something very strange was happening as the full moon approached.
“You’re doing it again,” I observed from my now-regular corner table at The Lucky Hound. It was nearly closing time, and the pub was mostly empty except for a few regulars.
Rafferty paused in his aggressive wiping of the bar top. “Doing what?”
“That.” I gestured to his hand, which had been working the same spot for nearly five minutes, the muscles in his forearm flexing rhythmically. “And you’ve been pacing all night. You’ve checked the window sixteen times in the last hour.”
He set down the cloth, rolling his shoulders as if trying to release tension. “Just restless. Big festival coming up.”
The festival in question was Cloverton’s annual “Guardian Moon Celebration,” conveniently scheduled to coincide with the full moon this weekend. According to local legend, this was when the Guardians were most active, blessing the town for another year of protection.
According to science, it was when tourist spending reached its peak.
“The festival isn’t for three more days,” I pointed out, closing my laptop. “This is something else. You’ve been getting increasingly… agitated all week.”
Rafferty’s eyes flicked to the window again—seventeen—before he sighed and came around the bar. He dropped into the chair opposite me, his large frame making it look like doll furniture.
“You’re too observant for your own good,” he muttered, running a hand through his already disheveled hair.
“Historian,” I reminded him. “Observation is my job.”
For the past week, our arrangement had been simple and satisfying: I spent my days conducting halfhearted research, and my nights exploring the magnificent terrain of Rafferty’s body. We hadn’t defined whatever was happening between us, and I’d convinced myself I was fine with that.
But something was off tonight. Rafferty was fidgety, distracted. The easy charm that usually radiated from him was muted, replaced by a coiled energy that made the hair on my arms stand up.
“Is everything okay?” I asked, reaching across the table to touch his hand.
He jerked back as if burned, then immediately looked contrite. “Sorry. I’m just… it’s complicated.”
“I have a PhD in complicated.” I tried for levity, but his expression remained troubled. “Talk to me, Rafferty.”
He glanced around the nearly empty pub, then leaned forward, voice dropping. “Not here. Come upstairs after closing?”
I nodded, trying to ignore the twist of anxiety in my gut. Was this the ‘it’s been fun but it’s over’ conversation? Had I misread everything?
“Of course.”
His smile was tight, nothing like his usual carefree grin. “Good. Give me thirty minutes to close up.”
Those thirty minutes felt like thirty years. I nursed my final drink, watching as Rafferty moved through his closing routine with unusual efficiency. No lingering conversations with regulars. No jokes with the staff. Just quick, almost mechanical movements as he cleaned and locked up.
Finally, the last customer left, and Mal flipped the sign to CLOSED.
“All done, boss,” she called, hanging up her apron. “Want me to cash out?”
“I’ve got it,” Rafferty replied, not looking up from the glasses he was arranging. “Have a good night, Mal.”
She glanced between us, a knowing smile playing at her lips. “You too. Both of you.”
As the door closed behind her, silence fell over the pub. Rafferty finished with the glasses, then turned to me, his expression unreadable.
“Ready?” he asked.
I nodded, gathering my laptop and jacket. Rafferty locked the front door, then led me through the back hallway to the stairs leading to his apartment above the pub. I’d become intimately familiar with these stairs and the apartment they led to over the past week.
His place was unexpectedly stylish—open plan, with exposed brick walls and large windows. Masculine but comfortable, with a massive leather couch that had proven surprisingly versatile for activities beyond sitting.
Tonight, however, Rafferty seemed in no mood for our usual activities. He paced the living room like a caged animal while I settled on the couch, watching him with growing concern.
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” I finally asked.
He stopped abruptly, turning to face me. “I need to go away for a few days.”
Not what I’d expected. “Oh. Is everything alright? Family emergency?”
“Something like that.” He resumed pacing. “I’ll be back after the festival.”
“After the full moon, you mean,” I said quietly.
His head snapped toward me, eyes narrowing. “What?”
“You’re leaving for the full moon.” I met his gaze steadily. “Just like you disappeared last month on the night of the full moon. Just like you refuse to touch anything silver. Just like your eyes sometimes flash gold when you’re excited or angry.”
He was very still now, watching me with an intensity that should have been frightening. “You’ve been paying attention.”
“I told you, it’s my job.” I leaned forward. “Rafferty, if there’s something you need to tell me—”
“There’s nothing—” He cut himself off, running both hands through his hair. “It’s not what you think.”
“How do you know what I think?” I challenged.
“Because you’re a rational man, Eliot.” He almost spat the word ‘rational.’ “You don’t believe in things you can’t explain.”
I stood, approaching him carefully like one might a skittish animal. “Try me.”
For a moment, I thought he might actually confide in me. Something vulnerable flashed across his face, something that made my chest ache. Then it was gone, replaced by a carefully constructed smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“It’s just some family business up in the hills. Old tradition.” He shrugged. “Boring stuff.”
I’d spent years studying folklore, myths, and legends. I knew deflection when I heard it. “You’re lying.”
“Eliot—”
“No.” I stepped closer, irritation flaring. “For two weeks, I’ve been honest with you. About my work, my skepticism, what I want from…” I gestured between us. “Whatever this is. I deserve the same courtesy.”
His jaw tightened. “Some things aren’t mine to share.”
“Bullshit.” The word felt foreign on my tongue, but appropriate. “This is about the Guardian legend, isn’t it? Your family’s connection to it.”
A muscle ticked in his cheek. “Let it go, Eliot.”
“I can’t. I’m here to research these legends, remember? That’s literally my job.” I crossed my arms. “Or did you seduce me to distract me from finding something out?”
It was a low blow, and I regretted it instantly when hurt flashed across his face. “Is that what you think? That I’ve been fucking you to keep you from your precious research?”
“No,” I backpedaled. “That’s not—”
“Because if that’s what you think of me, you can go back to your hotel right now.” His voice was deadly quiet. “I don’t need to trick people into my bed, Professor.”
“I know that.” I scrubbed a hand over my face. “I’m sorry. That was unfair.”
Rafferty turned away, bracing his hands on the kitchen counter, his back a rigid line of tension. For a long moment, neither of us spoke. I watched the rise and fall of his shoulders as he took deep, measured breaths.
Finally, he turned back to me, his expression carefully neutral. “Look, I care about you. More than I expected to. But there are things about me, about my family, that I can’t explain yet.”
“Yet?” I latched onto the word. “So there is something to explain.”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Always the academic.”
I closed the distance between us, placing a hand on his chest. Beneath my palm, his heart hammered like a drum. “Whatever it is, Rafferty, it won’t change how I feel about you.”
His laugh was hollow. “You can’t promise that.”
“Try me,” I repeated.
For one breathless moment, I thought he might. Then he covered my hand with his own, lifting it to press a kiss to my palm. “Not tonight. Please.”
I could have pushed. Should have, perhaps, given my professional curiosity. But something in his eyes—a mixture of fear and hope—stopped me.
“Okay,” I conceded. “Not tonight.”
Relief washed over his features. “Thank you.”
“But this conversation isn’t over,” I warned. “When you get back—”
“When I get back,” he agreed, pulling me against his chest. “I promise.”
I allowed myself to melt into his embrace, breathing in his scent—pine, hops, and that wild thing I still couldn’t identify. His arms tightened around me, almost desperately, as if he feared I might disappear.
“Stay tonight?” he murmured against my hair.
“Of course.”
We made our way to the bedroom, the tension between us transforming into something else—something urgent and needy. Rafferty’s kisses were harder tonight, more demanding, with an edge of desperation I hadn’t felt before.
His hands worked at the buttons of my shirt with uncharacteristic impatience. “Too many damn buttons,” he growled, finally giving up and simply ripping the fabric apart, sending buttons scattering across the hardwood floor.
“That was my favorite shirt,” I protested weakly as he pushed the tattered remains down my arms.
“I’ll buy you a dozen more.” His mouth was on my neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin in a way that made me shudder. “Need you. Now.”
There was something different about him tonight—something wild and barely contained.
His touches were rougher, more possessive, marking rather than caressing.
I should have been alarmed, but instead found myself responding with equal fervor, my nails dragging down his back as he stripped away my remaining clothes.
“On the bed,” he commanded, his voice deeper than usual. “Hands and knees.”