Page 87 of Kill Me Again: Psychics

“There you go. It’s the nature versus nurture argument.” Which brought us right back to what might have happened to Owen in childhood to twist him so badly that he wanted his own twin dead. “Romulus and Remus,” I said.

Baxter turned to face me. “Enlighten me.”

I flushed, aware I was once again using history as a crutch. I’d tried to explain to Verity many times that history wasn’t just a collection of facts, that it taught valuable lessons about past mistakes and successes. So there was a method to my madness. “Romulus and Remus were twin brothers, born to the princess and priestess Rhea Silvia and the god Mars. They were abandoned as infants and nursed by a she-wolf.”

Baxter blinked. “I hope you’re not trying to pass this off as fact. There are already at least two elements there that make it hard to believe.”

“It’s a Roman myth about the founding of Rome. There may or may not have been real twins.”

“And a real she-wolf who suckled humans?”

I waved that away. “You’re missing the point.”

“Which is?”

“They planned to found a city together but argued over where and who should rule. In the end, Romulus killed Remus and founded Rome, naming it after himself.”

Baxter frowned. “Except we’re not founding a city, and he gains nothing by killing me.”

I started the engine and headed back to the hotel, Baxter offering no objection this time.

Later, we lay replete in bed, sex rushed but no less satisfying for it. The room was warm, sweat still drying on our bodies. Despite that, neither of us was in any rush for a shower.

Baxter’s head rested on my chest, his eyes drifting shut as I ran my fingers through his damp hair, the moisture making it curl even more than usual.

I was close to nodding off when he spoke. “We should go and stay with Calisto and Asher. It’ll be safer than a hotel.”

“Will it?”

“High walls. One way in. Security cameras.”

“I thought things didn’t go so well when you stayed there before.”

“I was bringing a lot of unsavory men home. I don’t plan to do that this time.”

“Glad to hear it. Call me fussy, but I enjoy having at least half a bed.”

Baxter laughed. The sound felt like a minor victory after everything he’d been through—even more so knowing I’d made it happen. Writing books had nothing on that sense of achievement. Not that much writing had happened recently. One chapter, unread and unchecked, so it might not even make sense. Other priorities had taken over. By which I meant Baxter. Was I sad about that? Not in the slightest. My accountant would disagree.

“When this is over, we should,” I began, then hesitated.

Baxter lifted his head, a question in his eyes. “We should what?”

“It should have been a question, not an assumption.”

“What should?”

“It’s only been a few weeks. I keep forgetting that. It feels like I’ve known you longer.”

Baxter rolled his eyes. “Do you need to phrase it as a historical anecdote to get it out?”

“Gertrude Stein and Alice B Toklas.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Gertrude Stein was an American novelist, playwright, and poet.”

“Not French, then?”