Page 39

I clenched my jaw, shoving the thought away just as Devlin took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders, and closed thegap between him and Brooke. I couldn’t hear his words over the hum of the bar, but I could see him—see the way his lips curled into that smooth, practiced smile, the way he effortlessly maneuvered around Brooke so that her back was to me. Unfortunately, that also meant his face was in full view.

Which meant I saweverything.

Every seductive grin. Every slow, knowing chuckle at something she said. The flicker of surprise in his golden eyes as she presumably said something eccentric. And every now and then—his gaze cutting my way.

I forced a smile, nodding in support, reminding myself why I was doing this.

I need this dating thing to work.

If I wanted to write a book that had any chance of making it onto Dean Sinclair’s approved list, then I needed Devlin to get his real-life romance experience. So, I sat back, smiled, and pretended this wasn’t making my stomach twist into knots.

But as Brooke ran her fingers seductively through her waterfall-like cascade of hair, something inside me cracked. My grip tightened around the stem of my martini glass, and I had to physically stop myself from snapping it in half.

“Jenny?”

The disbelieving voice came from my side, and my head snapped toward it on instinct.

My stomach dropped.Shit.

Of all the people I didn’t want to run into again, Rowan—former friend turned obsessive stalker—was right at the top of the list. He had grown another foot since I’d last seen him, towering at what had to be seven and a half feet now. His dark hair was shaved at the sides, the rest braided down his back in a traditional orc style. His tusks gleamed, ivory-bright against his deep, forest-green lips, his sharp features hardenedwith maturity. Broad. Sculpted. The absolute pinnacle of orc masculinity.

I had no doubt that half the female orcs in North America were pining over him—if it weren’t for the polished gold septum ring gleaming at the center of his nose, the unmistakable mark of a claimed orc.

Panic surged through me, adrenaline flooding my veins, every instinct screaming at me torun.

But before I could act on it, Rowan took a careful step forward, his voice low and steady. “Jenny, wait. Please don’t go. I just want to talk.”

I froze, my body locked in place, my mind still undecided—was this about to turn into a public scene? Was he about to rally the whole bar against me? Or... did he really just want to talk? I glanced around, searching for any sign of hostility, any indication that a lynch mob was about to form.

Nothing. No hushed whispers. No accusatory stares.

The only person watching us was Devlin. His eyes had narrowed, sharp and assessing, the shadows in the dimly lit room pooling at his feet, twisting toward him like they could feel the tension crackling in the air.

I exhaled slowly, forcing my muscles to unclench. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, I gestured toward the seat across from me. Not because I wanted him to sit. But because it moved him out of the direct path to the exit.

The chair groaned under Rowan’s weight as he settled into it, the half-full glass of ale in his hand clinking softly against the table. His earthy brown eyes, rimmed with red, locked onto me—wide, disbelieving—like he was seeing a ghost. And, in a way, I supposed he was. I doubted anyone in Headless Hollow had expected me to have the audacity to come back after what I’d done.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again, Jenny,” Rowan said, his voice a low rumble.

A sharp prickle ran down my spine as I curled my fingers into the sleeves of my hoodie, gripping the fabric.

When I didn’t answer, Rowan wrapped his massive hands around his ale glass, lifted it halfway to his lips, then hesitated, setting it back down with a softclink. Finally, he said, “I was really sorry to hear about your parents, Jenny. They were good people.”

I shrank back into my seat, my body curling inward as if I could physically make myself smaller.

Rowan’s gaze softened. “A lot of us think you’re innocent, you know.”

My jaw clenched. I risked a glance up at him. His red rimmed eyes were wide, pleading—desperate for me to believe him. Heat surged through me, sharp and burning. I wanted to scream at him. At everyone who kept saying they thought I was innocent, or that I’d been set up.

Iwasn’t.

I did it.

The memory was crystal clear in my mind, and I needed people to stop trying to defend me, to stop apologizing like I was some kind of victim. But the words refused to form. My throat felt tight, and all I could do was stare down at my untouched drink and pray he’d take the hint and leave me alone.

Rowan, of course, didn’t take the hint.

“There were just so many inconsistencies from that night,” he continued, undeterred. “Like, who placed the call to the mortal police instead of our own? And even with the brakes—”