The Witch and The Hunters

CHAPTER NINETY-SIX

Page count: 26

Hermione sighed, tipping her head slightly in greeting before turning her attention back to the couch.

"It has," she said coolly. "I'd say it's nice to see you—but we both know that would be a lie."

Crowley's mouth curved into a familiar, lazy smirk as he stepped closer, close enough that she could feel him behind her, his presence pressing without touching.

"I've missed that smart mouth."

"I doubt your employees are foolish enough to speak to you the way I do," she replied mildly.

He chuckled. "No. They value their continued existence."

She nodded absently, then tilted her head toward the couch in the window. "What do you think?"

Crowley studied it with exaggerated seriousness. "Doesn't suit you."

"I suppose you're right," she sighed.

Her gaze drifted past the display, settling on a table and chairs deeper inside the shop. Without another word, she slipped past him and entered, making her way straight toward the table. She didn't need to look back to know he followed—Crowley never made a sound unless he wished to.

Hermione ran her fingers along the polished surface, testing the grain, the weight of it.

"Solid oak," Crowley remarked, pulling out a chair and sitting as though he owned the place. "Good taste."

"I'm undecided," she said.

"And what noble purpose would this fine piece serve?" he asked conversationally.

She turned just enough to keep her body angled away from him—still denying him the sight of her stomach.

"One of the libraries," she replied. His eyebrow rose, but he said nothing. "And while I'm touched by your sudden interest in interior design, I rather doubt you came all this way to help me furnish my home. So—why are you here?"

His lips twitched. "Well, kidnapping hasn't exactly worked in the past."

"No," she agreed calmly. "On both occasions, you were bested, injured, abandoned, and left sulking."

"Which brings us to a new strategy," he said smoothly. "Courtesy. Respect. Civil discourse."

She snorted softly, drifting toward a display of lamps. "You don't respect me."

"Perhaps not in the way you mean," he shrugged. "But I respect intelligence. I respect someone who's outplayed me—twice. I respect a woman who's managed to bind the Winchester brothers so completely they'd gladly die for her." His eyes gleamed. "And I respect you just enough to be impressed that you convinced Dean Winchester—legendary man-whore—to settle down, put a ring on it, and behave."

Hermione turned her head slightly. "How do you know we're married?"

"Oh, your husband slipped," Crowley replied. "After that, I dug a little deeper. Found the certificate. Weeks after you met. Very dramatic."

She shrugged. "Our work is dangerous. Futures uncertain. We saw no reason to waste time pretending this wasn't inevitable. We loved each other. We married."

"And here we are," he murmured. "Two years later."

He rose slowly, circling just enough to study her profile.

"You are," Crowley finished softly, "a remarkably difficult woman to track."

She wasn't sure whether that was meant as a compliment, but the way his mouth twitched suggested it was.