"Is that so? Then you're going to love this."
He whipped the car to the curb, ignored the furious blast of horns behind him at the move. He hit the buckle of the seat belt with one hand, grabbed her sweater with the other. He yanked her forward, then knocked her back against the seat again with a kiss that had nothing to do with romance and everything to do with temper.
She shoved, she struggled, she steamed. In those few furious moments, it was her strength pitted against his, and the point was made, brutally, that she was outgunned.
When he released her, snapped his belt back into place, her breath was ragged.
"Fuck Prince Charming." He swung away from the curb.
No, he didn't look like a storybook character now, she thought. Unless it was one of those warlord figures who blazed through villages taking exactly what they wanted. The kind who dragged a woman up onto his horse and rode away with her while she was still screaming.
"I thought you weren't thinking about sex."
He spared her one hot look. "I lied."
"I'm not going to apologize for the things I said. I've got a right to speak my mind. I've got a right to be irritable and angry."
"Fine. I'm not going to apologize for what I just did. I've got the same rights."
"I guess you do. I wasn't really mad at you. I am now, but I wasn't. I was just mad in general."
"You can either tell me why, or not." He pulled up at Flynn's. Waited.
"Some things that have happened. I'd rather get into it all with everyone, all at once. I'm not going to apologize," she said again. "If you keep getting in my way, you're going to make the handiest target."
"Same goes," he said, and got out of the car. "I'm carrying your goddamn pot." He yanked open the door, hauled it up. "Deal."
She stared at him, standing there in the brisk fall evening, in his gorgeous overcoat, holding her big stewpot. And looking, she thought, as if he'd just as soon dump the contents over her head as not.
She let the laugh bubble in her throat, then let it out as she retrieved the backpack. "It's kind of nice, when I'm being a jackass, to have somebody kick and bray right along with me. That pot's pretty full. Mind you don't tip it and spill chili on that lovely coat."
She started toward the door. "Fuck Prince Charming," she said and laughed again. "That was a good one."
"I
have my moments," he muttered and followed her inside.
When the chili was simmering on Flynn's new stove, Zoe looked around the living room. Malory's touch was everywhere now, she noted. The tables, the lamps, the vases and bowls. The art on the walls or set around the room. There were fabric swatches on the arm of the couch and what looked like antique fireplace tools standing by the hearth.
There was a scent of fall flowers and of female.
Zoe remembered the first time she'd come into this room. Two short months—a lifetime— before. There'd been nothing but the big, ugly couch, a couple of crates standing in for tables, and some boxes yet unpacked.
The couch was still ugly, but the fabric swatches told her Malory was going to deal with that. As she would, in her organized and creative way, deal with the rest of the house.
She and Flynn had become a couple, Zoe thought, and were making the house into a home.
A reminder of how they'd come to this point hung over the mantel. Zoe moved closer, looking up at the portrait Malory had painted while under Kane's spell. The Singing Goddess , standing near a forest while her sisters looked on. It was brilliant and beautiful, and full of innocent joy.
And the key that had been on the ground at Venora's feet had been pulled out of the painting, brought into three dimensions by Malory's will, and used to open the first lock.
"It looks good there," Zoe said. "It looks right there."
She turned back. They were waiting for her, she knew, and she had to struggle against nerves. Both Malory and Dana had taken their turn at the head of a meeting. Now it was hers.
"I guess we'd better get started."
Chapter Nine