She sat up, her mind replaying her godmother's voice on the phone last night. If Jack had somehow faked that, he was damned good. But why would he go to such great lengths to concoct this strange story and then do everything possible to make her believe it? None of it made sense, but the alternative was too bizarre to contemplate.

What about the fire? How could someone fake something like that? Unless Jack was a crazy magician with a penchant for elaborate pranks. She rubbed the bridge of her nose. No. That just didn't fit.

And even if he had faked the call to Annie, how could he know about the garden incident? No one knew about that except her. Mira hadn't even known Annie had realized she'd walked back there and seen that tiny rain burst over the garden patch.

Not to mention the men laying in her entranceway when she'd regained consciousness the night before, the men who had meant her harm. The ones Jack had ... she swallowed hard ... taken care of. What about them? She'd intuitively felt those men had meant to hurt her. Mira didn't have that feeling about Jack.

Nothing added up; her logical mind denied any of it could be true. The whole thing made her head hurt even more than it already did.

She blew out a hard breath and slid over to the edge of the bed. Jack banged pots and pans in the kitchen, clearly invested in making breakfast. Curious, she opened the drawer of his nightstand and peered within. Inside laid more rope—no surprise there—and a handful of foil-wrapped condoms.

Her eyes widened and she slammed the drawer closed. The noise made pain flare through her head, but Jack seemed not to have heard it. He was still banging around in the kitchen while he cooked something that smelled delicious.

Mira wondered if he made breakfast for the women the rope and condoms were meant for. Probably, she decided. Right after he twisted their worlds on end by declaring magick existed.

She stood up and walked into the bathroom. Catching sight of herself in the mirror that hung over the white marble countertop, she leaned in and examined her bruise. It was a hideous thing, covering the whole right part of her forehead. Lovely. She supposed she should be happy her skin hadn't been broken, or that she hadn't received a more serious head injury.

Looking more closely and frowning, she traced it with her index finger. The color seemed wrong. Mira scowled at her reflection. She was no nurse, but she'd had her share of bruises, and this one looked older than it was. Definitely not pretty, but on its way to gone.

How could that be?

She shrugged. She was probably mistaken. It's not like she ever went to med school.