Page 63 of The Bone Witch
I stare up at him, confused. And then look around as though I’m searching for a witness that can confirm everything he just told me.
“Ummm...did you not just tell me about the time you and your brother died and came back to life?” I hedge, pointing around me to remind him that it all happened in this very kitchen mere minutes ago.
“Yes. I did tell you about theonetime we came back. But we haven’t gone around testing thelive forevertheory since then. There are other factors at play that could explain what happened. There’s no guarantee that if we die again, we’ll just bounce right back, and we’re not willing to risk it at this point.”
“Soooo you’renotimmortal then? You might just be some kind of fluke? Like you used yourget out of jail freecard and now you’re good to go?”
He snorts out a laugh and rolls his eyes, but his shoulders lift up in a shrug nonetheless.
“Well, that’s anticlimactic as shit,” I observe. “Here I was trying to find the bright side to being tethered to a possible immortal. But really you might be the immortal equivalent of premature ejaculation. That’s disappointing.”
Rogan’s eyes widen with indignation. “You did not just call me that,” he challenges, and I bite back the laugh that wants to bubble out of me at the look on his face.
The oven timer dings, and it pulls my attention away. “My tea is done,” I announce, but Rogan doesn’t move from where he’s pinned me to the counter. I look up at him and notice that his stare has grown intense again.
“It feels weird telling you all of this,” he admits. “I didn’t realize how much I needed to until now. I forgot what hope felt like,” he confesses, and I feel my heart shatter for him.
It dawns on me how hard all of this must have been. Not just the horror of what happened to him and his brother, but what was done to them afterward by people who should have cared more and known better. I can only imagine how lonely it would have all felt, and now to have the one person who truly got it...gone without a trace.
“Thank you, Rogan,” I offer and watch as uncertainty bleeds into his gaze. “Thank you for trusting me enough to tell me the truth. I want you to know that I’ll never speak a word of it.”
Relief seeps into his stare, but still he doesn’t move.
“Also for what it’s worth, I’m sorry that any of this happened to you and to Elon. You didn’t deserve any of it. If I ever meet your mother, I promise to deck her,” I add, hating the ache I still see floating in his eyes.
He chuckles, and the sound makes me smile. The oven dings again, and I swear it sounds irritated. I push away from the counter, rise up on my tip toes, and peck Rogan on the lips before tapping his arm so that he’ll let me out of his cage.
He freezes, and then suddenly I freeze.
What the hell did I just do?
“Oh, shit, I am so sorry,” I stammer, embarrassment crashing through me like an avalanche. “I don’t know why I did that. You were just there”—I gesture at his close proximity—“and it was like some weird reflex,” I defend as he blinks down at me in stupefied astonishment.
“I blame the kitchen!” I declare as though it makes perfect sense and isn’t completely ridiculous. “We just had this deep conversation, and the setting is kind of intimate. You’re all leaning in. It’s like it flipped some relationship switch in my head, and my body reacted accordingly,” I explain, sounding more and more crazy by the moment. “I take it by the look on your face that this has never happened to you, but rest assured, it has happened to me. You don’t need to read anything into it,” I offer. “I mean, I think we’ve already established that I have a tendency to casually kiss and run,” I point out, motioning to the note that Saxon sent, now tossed aside dismissively on the far counter.
My face is on fire with mortification. I just want to get my herbs out of the oven and then find a comfy hole to crawl into and live in for a solid twenty years. That feels like the statute of limitations on embarrassment from accidentally kissing someone and making shit awkward.
I open my mouth to apologize again when Rogan is still just staring at me, not saying a word. But out of nowhere, his body pins mine, his hands are cradling my face, and his lips are pressed against my lips in a searing kiss.
Surprise ricochets through me, but the next thing I know, I’m melting against him, my fingers threading through his hair as his mouth sends me reeling. His lips are soft and gentle at first. I can practically taste his hesitancy as he gives me a moment to decide how I feel about this. In response, I open up to him, and he wastes no time in showing me that there’s nothing accidental about this.
He kisses me reverently, unhurriedly, like we have all the time in the world to get it right. His fingers dip back into my hair, eliciting a small moan that he greedily swallows down. I pull him closer, each nip and suck sending a blaze of want through my entire being. His tongue teases and then moves in to dance with mine when I welcome it. I feel like I fall into him in all the best ways, completely losing myself in the taste and feel of him. He gives me no choice, because this is the kind of kiss that changes everything. It’s deep and hungry, but not rushed or frenzied. He’s not just exploring, he’s not testing the waters, he’s staking a damn claim.
The oven timer goes off again, and I pull away for a moment as though the sound has broken some kind of spell. “Fuck off,” I growl at the beeping menace, and Rogan’s rumbling chuckle vibrates against me.
I stare up at him a little stunned. I was not expectingthatat all. I mean, I’ve been kissed in my day, but that was something else entirely. He crushes his fingers through my curls, and I try to keep things civilized and not to close my eyes and moan.
“If you keep that up, we’re going to need a safe word,” I blurt.
That’s it, brain, you are in time out!
He laughs and then pushes away from me, moving to pull the pans out of the oven and turn the timer off. An odd sense of loss trickles through me as he does, but I do my best to ignore it. So that was the best kiss I’ve ever had—it doesn’t mean anything. I’m not going to go full needy-Nancy and ask for a play-by-play of what the hell it all means.
Nope. It’s fine.
Casual. Just like I like it.
“What about moonstone?” he asks as he turns back to me.
