Rowan called back exactly one hour later, as promised.
I was wearing fresh clothes, my hair still damp. Fao was back in Trevor's sweatpants — I'd thrown the shirt in the dryer since it smelled like wet dog — and was sitting on the couch with his legs crossed, watching me with that patient attention.
"Okay," Rowan said the second I answered. "I've had my drink. I've processed. I've accepted that my best friend is apparently living in a supernatural romance novel. Still up for debate on if it's erotic. Now tell me everything."
I told her everything. And I mean everything — the claiming, the bite, the knot that had locked us together, waking up sore and marked and confused. Even what had just happened in the shower, his hands on my body, the way he'd looked at me like I was something holy.
