Mallory grabbed a second empty bag from the chair next to my bedroom door, dropped it onto the bed, and pulled three pair of cherished shoes—Mihara Pumas (sneakers that I adored, much to Ethan’s chagrin), red ballet-style flats, and a pair of black Mary Janes she’d given me—from my closet. She raised them for my approval and, at my nod, stuffed them in. Two more pairs followed before she settled on the bed next to the bag and crossed her legs, one foot swinging impatiently.

“I can’t believe you’re leaving me here with him. What am I going to do without you?”

I gave her a flat stare.

She rolled her eyes. “You only caught us the one time.”

“I only caught you in the kitchen the one time, Mallory. I eat in there. I drink in there. I could have lived a contented, happy eternity without ever catching a glimpse of Catcher’s bare ass on the kitchen floor.” I faked a dramatic shiver. Faked, because the boy was gorgeous—a broad-shouldered, perfectly muscled, shaved-headed, green-eyed, tattooed, bad-boy magician who’d swept my roommate off her feet (and onto her back, as it turned out).

“Not that it isn’t a fine ass,” she said.

I folded a pair of pants and put them into my bag. “It’s a great ass, and I’m very happy for you. I just didn’t need to see it naked again. Ever. For real.”

She chuckled. “For realsies, even?”

“For realsies, even.” My stomach twinged with hunger. I glanced at Mallory, then lifted brows toward the glass of blood on my nightstand. She rolled her eyes, then waved her hands at it.

“Drink, drink,” she said. “Pretend I’m some Buffy fan with a wicked attraction to the paranormal.”