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Okay, when I say it like that, it sounds even worse.

I press my fingers against the mark. If Grimm bit me in his coital excitement by mistake, then fine.

Accidents happen.

There must be something we can do about it.

A spell.

A potion.

Magical mouthwash.

Whatever.

We'll figure it out. Except first, Grimm would need to be here.

And he isn't.

I walk through the entire house naked because apparently modesty has also abandoned me.

No Grimm.

No note.

No text.

Nothing.

I finally find my phone buried beneath the remains of my purse catastrophe from last night.

No messages.

Well.

That sucks.

I spend the weekend avoiding the world because fuck everyone right now.

Very mature.

I know.

But sometimes a woman needs forty-eight hours, three pints of ice cream, two bottles of wine, and several terrible romantic comedies to process the fact that a mysterious possibly magical man gave her the best sex of her life, bit her, looked horrified about it, and disappeared.

Saturday afternoon, Coach Williams stops by.

I know it's him because I peek through the curtain like a fugitive.

Then I hide in my basement.

Yes.

I hide.

In my own basement.

From a man standing on my front porch.