That evening, our car rumbled down the road toward the archive, Roger steady at the wheel. A car with two guards followed, keeping a watchful eye out. I sighed, already exhausted, despite having slept more than Ella, Roger, or Sinclair. It hadn't been restful, though—and then there was today, with the sketch artist.

I stared at the sketch in my lap, at the face of the man who'd been haunting my dreams, unbeknownst to me. Seeing him on paper was like confronting a ghost I hadn't known existed. A shiver ran through me. I neatly folded the page and placed it in the cup holder, no longer wanting it in my hands.

"You all right?" Roger asked, glancing at me.

"Yeah," I said, sighing again, my eyes on the road. "How long until we get there?"

"About two more hours," he replied, nodding toward the GPS on his phone. "We're lucky they're staying open late for us."

"We're not lucky," I murmured, tugging at the bottom of Ella's jeans—predictably too short. "Sinclair's rich. Anyone will stay open late for a substantial donation."

Roger smirked but didn't reply. He knew I was right.

My phone buzzed under my thigh. I pulled it out and read the message:

Hank: It's okay, I totally understand. I'm glad the baby's okay. Don't worry about the clinic—I can hold down the fort as long as you need. Have fun? Is that the right sentiment for a trip to an obscure shifter archive?

I smiled, inwardly amused by his joke. Fun wasn't exactly the word, not for this trip. My smile faded, however, when another message appeared:

Hank: I miss you.

I looked away, licking my lips and tucking the phone back under my leg. Roger was watching me.

"Who was that?" he asked, smugly. He already knew.

"Nobody," I murmured, turning away.

"Was it Ella?" he needled.

I glared. "It wasn't Ella."

"Oh," he said, smirking. He let it drop, but he knew. I sighed, resting my head against the seat, wanting a nap but knowing I wouldn't get one.

My mind wandered to Hank, to him seeing patients alone all night—had it only been last night?—when I'd pulled him, half-dressed, into my bedroom, gasping for him, letting him peel my clothes off before…

Well. Before things happened.

Good things. Great things, even.

So why couldn't I text him back and say I missed him too?

I pushed the thought away, focusing on the hum of the car, Roger's faint breathing. But I didn't reach for my phone. I just didn't want to.

As I drifted off, I wondered if that made me incredibly cruel. I sighed, hating myself, unsure what to do.

Two hours later, a hand on my shoulder startled me awake. I gasped, spinning to see Roger looking at me curiously.

"Eye for an eye," he said, smirking. "That's how you woke me up this morning—with a jolt."

"Sorry," I murmured, rubbing my eye and looking around in the dark. "Are we here?" The car was parked but running, wipers moving against a light rain. I was surprised; the forecast hadn't mentioned rain.

"Yup," Roger said. "Ready to go in? Need a minute?"

I stretched, eyes closed, taking stock. Body: stiff, but okay. Mind: thoroughly shaken. Heart: best left uninvestigated, for now.

"Yup," I said, smiling at Roger. He blinked, surprised. "Did you hear from Ella and Sinclair?"

Roger shook his head, turning off the car and unbuckling his seatbelt. "I did," he said, "but nothing significant. All's well at home. If we're lucky, we can finish our research tonight and be home by dawn."

We got out, and I frowned at him. "But you won't have slept at all—twenty-four hours," I said.

Roger winked, stretching. "Don't worry, baby," he said. "I've got stamina." He headed for the ornate building, jogging up the stairs ahead of me.

My last thought as I followed was, I bet you fucking do, Roger.

Inside, a friendly, eager librarian greeted us. As she smiled and led us into a dimly lit reading room, I reminded myself her enthusiasm stemmed from Sinclair's generous donation, not genuine excitement to see us.

"We've found some books you might find useful," she said, gesturing toward a stack of perhaps 120 old leather-bound tomes. My eyes widened. "Knowing the Cult of the Goddess adopted what we now understand to be the traditional robe about five hundred years ago, and assuming the cult you're searching for is imitating that tradition, we narrowed the selection to the past five hundred years."

"This?" I asked, gesturing to the books. "This is the narrowed selection?"

The librarian nodded, smiling eagerly.

"Thank you," Roger said, smiling warmly.

"I'll be here if you need me," the librarian said, gesturing to her desk. "But please, no food or drink around the books."

"We promise," Roger said, giving her his most charming smile. "We'll protect the books. No sticky fingers here." The librarian blushed, giggled, and scurried away.

"Wow," I said, beside Roger. "You had quite an effect on her," I whispered.

"Librarians love me," Roger shrugged. "I don't know why. It's always been a thing."

"Are you sure you don't just like librarians?" I asked, smirking and raising an eyebrow. I pretended to adjust horn-rimmed glasses, looking at him seductively. "Oh, Mr. Sinclair, please, let me tell you all about the Dewey Decimal system," I teased, my voice breathy.

Roger smirked, stepping closer. "You watch yourself," he murmured, a hint of playful heat in his eyes. "If you're not careful, I'll pull you behind the stacks and ravish you. I won't be able to stop myself."

I laughed—too loudly in the quiet space. I slapped a hand over my mouth, still giggling, and looked at the librarian, who looked shocked. Roger laughed, more quietly this time. "Come on," he said, nodding toward the books. "Let's get started."

Smiling, I sat down and pulled a book toward me.