Only reluctantly do I drag myself out of bed, and only then because Des promised to make us breakfast.

I watch him now, my shirtless Des moving about my kitchen like this is his house and not mine. (I’m pretty sure he feels the place is now his.) I try not to smile as he pulls ingredients out of thin air.

Eggs dance in midair, and bell peppers chop themselves. All the while, Des whistles away, his hair tied back.

My eyes move lower, taking in his muscled body and his sleeve of tattoos. The Bargainer is a thing of beauty. A deadly, wily thing, but a beautiful one nonetheless.

It’s as I’m relishing the sight of him that I notice the claw marks scouring his back.

I hiss in a breath. Apparently, unbeknownst to me, my claws came out to play earlier.

Des turns around, instantly alarmed. “What is it?”

I nod to his back. “I hurt you.”

He casts a glance over his shoulder. I know he can’t see the markings, but he must recall them because he smirks.

“If you’re feeling truly terrible about it, Callie, I’m sure we could work out a way for you to repay—”

“Des!” That’s what I get for being thoughtful.

He laughs, then turns back to my stove, where he’s cooking up an omelet. I realize then that he could’ve simply healed himself. But much like Malaki with Temper’s hickey, he hadn’t.

Never going to understand fairies.

The Bargainer flicks his spatula-wielding hand, and a mug of coffee prepares itself. Once it’s finished, it floats across the kitchen to where I sit.

“For you, my love,” he says, not bothering to turn around.

I catch the mug out of the air. “You’re the best,” I say, taking a grateful sip.

“Was there ever any doubt?” He glances over his shoulder and winks at me.

It’s only a short while later that Des finishes the omelets, my dish floating over to me, his trailing after. They clatter down on the table, forks and napkins hustling through the air after them.

Des takes a seat across from me, dragging his chair back, and holy Jesus, a shirtless Des is sitting at my table. My lady parts aren’t handling the situation well.

He raises his eyebrows at me, and looks pointedly at the meal.

The Bargainer leans back in his chair. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“Giving me your fuck me eyes. I’m trying to be a gentleman and not screw you right here on your kitchen table.”

I set my coffee aside. “The table can take a beating …”

This may legitimately be heaven.

“Can we do this always?” I ask.

I’m sitting cross-legged on the table, my clothing skewed. Scattered across the floor are the remnants of breakfast, the omelets splattered across the ground, the dishes shattered to pieces.

Why hadn’t Des and I come back to earth sooner? It’s obvious this is where we get our freak on. Honeymoon: my house … then Des’s house … then somewhere in the clouds between the two.

Des steps up to me, his pants back in place. He brushes a kiss against my lips, then extends a hand. The pieces of my broken mug vibrate off the floor, then fit themselves back together. The splattered coffee funnels itself into the air and then back in the mug.

The Bargainer hands it to me. “Need you even ask such a question? I’ll insist we do this.”

I take the cup of coffee from him. “Thanks.”

He sits down next to me on the kitchen table, a mug of his own floating into his hand. Breakfast begins to fix itself back up, the omelets reforming, the plates piecing themselves together. They clatter onto the table.

“What shall we do today?” Des sounds downright devious.

“I thought we’d already figured that one out.”

“Demanding little siren. I’m nothing but your little sex doll, aren’t I?”

I shake my head, blowing on my coffee. (Somehow, Des managed to make it steaming hot.) “You have me all figured out.”

He flashes me a mischievous smile. “I was thinking we might do a little something between shags.” He snaps his fingers. “Ah, I know.”

I glance over at him. He looks a little too conniving for my taste.

A minute later, a box floats out of my guest room. At first, I think we’re doing Redecorating Callie’s Home, Part II. But then I recognize the box heading our way.

I nearly drop my mug.

“What are you doing, Des?”

This is not a part of my past that I want to explore with him right now—or ever.

The box drops onto the ground in front of us.

“What does it look like I’m doing—digging up all your dirty little secrets. Oh look—this box isn’t dusty like ours was. Someone revisits these things frequently.”

I’m clenching my mug now.

The cardboard flaps of the box pop open.

I lean forward and slam a hand down on them, closing the box back up. “Let’s not.”

“Come now, love. I want to see Callie’s Naughty Chest.”

I almost fight him on it. Even though he’s seen my worst, this is not a collection I’m proud of.

But then, this is what our relationship is built on: we share our dirty little secrets with one another, things that no one else might accept us for.

So eventually I lift my hand. “Fine.”

The flaps pop open once more. My heart’s pounding a little faster, and my fingers are a little twitchy. No one else has seen what’s in this container.

The first thing that levitates out is a gold necklace. A man’s gold necklace. It pools in Des’s waiting hand.

“What’s the story behind this?” he asks.

If I close my eyes, I can still see the man clearly. Wiry, lean frame; mean, squinty eyes. Not all my targets look like bad people, but this one did.

“Keith Sampson. His ex wanted sole custody of their children, so she had me dig up dirt on him. Among the long list of very fucked up shit he did in his life, he beat his wife, sold drugs to minors, and he got his daughter hooked on heroin so that ‘the cow could lose some fucking weight.’”

Just remembering Keith has my siren stirring with agitation.

“What did you do to him?” Des asks, curious.

Grovel. Cry. Demean himself.

“I made him turn himself in.”

“Hmm,” Des says, staring at the necklace.

I get the distinct impression he’s listening to the shadows right now. That theory only solidifies when he smirks, then sets the piece of jewelry aside.

The next thing that comes out is a hand drawn map.

“Arnold Mattis,” I say.

His girlfriend, Christina Ruiz, had hired me to … deal with Arnold.

“Several years ago, Arnold beat, raped, then repeatedly stabbed his girlfriend after she tried to leave him.” The crime scene photos still haunt me. “He got off with rape and assault charges, was sentenced to ten to thirty years, but was put on parole early.”

When I found Arnold, he had that map on him, Christina’s address written out on it. Along with the map, he had bleach, rope, duct tape, and a hammer stowed away in the trunk of his car.

“What happened to him?”

“I happened.”

Arnold and I played a game called An Eye for an Eye. He didn’t like it much. I did.

Next to come out of the box is an embroidered iron-on patch of a flaming skull. It lands in Des’s palm, a bit of black leather still clinging to it.

“Racist biker.”