The wards snapped into place just as she emerged from the bedroom with his clothes neatly folded over her arm. Now she wore a pair of tight-fitting, worn blue jeans that did good things for her ass and a long-sleeved blue shirt that did good things for her eyes.

Not that he noticed her ass or her eyes in any way but a perfunctory one.

She handed him her clothes. “Sorry I didn’t get a chance to wash them.”

“No problem. Your wards are in place. They’ll keep out Stefan or any of the Duskoff.” He jerked his head at the book she’d placed on her coffee table. “Read that and get back to me.”

“Oh, that’s my first priority. I’m making a pot of tea, maybe some dinner, and settling in to read.” She glanced at a small table near her kitchen. “Right after I listen to the fifty messages I have on my recorder, probably all of them panicked.”

Damn, she had fifty-two messages on there. Apparently, Sarafina had lots of people to care about her. That must be nice.

He left the apartment, intending to walk down the stairs and go back home. Instead, he turned in the hallway outside her apartment to look at her. He didn’t want to leave her. It bothered him. There was something odd about her, something off, something he wasn’t comfortable with—

“Why are you staring at me like that?”

“Was I staring?”

She rolled her eyes. “You know, you really need to work on your people skills. Good night, Theo.” She slammed the door in his face.

Something really irritating about her.

SARAFINA SLID INTO HER OWN BED, WITH HER OWN sheets and her own pillows, snuggled down, and sighed. It was almost perfect. She was just missing . . . Grosset jumped up and settled at her feet. Ah, now it was perfect. She smiled and closed her eyes.

Immediately, an image of Theo popped into her mind. Her smile faded and she shook her head a little, grimacing.

She tried to snuggle back down and immerse herself in the treat that was her own bed and apartment after the hellish few days she’d had, but rest didn’t come. Really, it was no surprise. The book Theo had given her lay on her bedside table. She’d spent all afternoon and evening reading it.

It was not material that made for good dreams.

Warlocks—witches gone bad—and demons? Demons? Really? And she was part demon? Or at least, created through a demon’s magickal tampering. It was all so unbelievable. Yet she’d felt the power inside her. She’d wielded it. She knew it was all for real, no matter how bizarre it was.

Earth, air, water, and fire. She was fire. At the thought, the seat of her magick gave a little pulse.