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The bond pulsed beneath my ribs, warm and satisfied. It had spent days clawing at me to acknowledge it. One kiss, and the damned thing had curled up like a smug cat, certain it had finally trained its human.

I pressed two fingers to my mouth as I slipped through the side entrance. That was a mistake. The memory came back with humiliating clarity: Logan’s hands cradling my face, the startled sound he made when I kissed him back, and the moment his careful restraint nearly snapped.

I wanted to turn around.

I wanted to go back to the library, shove the suspicious librarian into a supply closet, and finish what Logan and I had started between Vampire Lineages and A Complete History of Ritual Disembowelment.

Instead, I walked into the kitchen and found Delia waiting beside a bowl of salt, three sprigs of rosemary, and a steaming mug that smelled strong enough to strip paint.

“Drink this.”

I stopped. “Hello to you too.”

“Your mother felt the magical flare from the library.” Delia shoved the mug toward me. “She ordered an heir assessment in twelve minutes, and you look like someone kissed the good sense clean out of your head.”

I accepted the mug without drinking. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Delia stared at my mouth. “Carrie, your lips are swollen, your hair is trying to escape its pins, and your magic is purring. Unless you were mugged by a very affectionate thunderstorm, you kissed the vampire.”

“Lower your voice.”

“That is not a denial.”

“Because denying things to you is exhausting and rarely productive.”

Her grin arrived bright, wicked, and entirely inappropriate to the likelihood of my imminent death. “Was it good?”

I glared at her.

“That good?” she whispered.

The kitchen door rattled in its frame as my magic reacted to the memory. Delia’s grin vanished.

“Oh, shit.” She took the mug from me, dumped half its contents into the bowl of salt, and crushed the rosemary between her palms. “Give me your hands.”

“What is that?”

“A grounding wash.”

“It smells like boiled socks.”

“That means it’s working.”

“That is not how smell works.”

“Do you want to debate herbalism, or do you want to keep Jacqueline from reading your romantic decisions directly off your aura?”

I gave her my hands.

Delia smeared the mixture over my palms and wrists while muttering a concealment charm. Her magic was nothing like mine or my mother’s. It moved in quick silver threads, clever and slippery, hiding in the spaces between stronger spells. Delia had never cared about being powerful. She cared about being difficult to catch.

It was one of the many reasons I loved her.

The warmth beneath my ribs dimmed until the bond felt muffled rather than gone. The sudden distance made panic rise in my throat.

“Relax,” Delia said. “I covered the scent. I didn’t cut anything.”

“You can smell it?”