Conclave (Devil's Night, #3.5)

by Penelope Douglas

I pause there, aggravated she’s changing the subject and putting up that façade again, but she holds me, dressed in her tank and underwear, and swings a long, naked leg over me. I let out a quiet laugh. Hiding behind playfulness. Will does that, too. I start to rub her head, but then the cabin door opens, and we both look over, seeing Banks standing in the doorway. She stops dead, her eyebrows nearly reaching her hairline as she catches us in our little, cuddly embrace. Her mouth forms an O, and she starts to back out, closing the door. “Get in here,” I call out. “We’re not doing anything.” For crying out loud. She stops, a half-smile curling her lips and she comes back in, closing the door behind her. “And get that constipated look off your face,” Alex says. Banks heads over to the bed, dressed in some workout clothes, same as me, but her hair is down. “Brat,” she spits out. Laying at my side, she joins me in giving Alex a scalp massage, except Banks’ massage looks more like how you rub a dog’s head, curling her fingers and lightly scratching. “Stop that,” Alex barks at her. “I hate you.” Banks and I both start to laugh. She has like fifty-eight dogs—okay, not that many, but a lot—so petting probably comes naturally to her.