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"I look like a magpie," Paranormal muttered, but he held out his hand anyway. The dove feathers on the back of Parady's neck bristled, betraying his embarrassment, and Raven couldn't resist running the back of his hand over them.

It started by accident.

Paranormal was sorting through a particularly complex report, leaning back in his chair, and instinctively reached for his shoulder—a habit he'd retained from the days when Dickens used to sit there. But his fingers didn't touch cold metal, but a warm, ruffled wing.

Raven, sitting nearby and leafing through some papers, froze.

"Forgive me, I..."

"Don't stop," the Duke's voice deepened.

Parady carefully ran his fingers along the edge of the wing, smoothing out the tangled feathers. It was... strange. Intimate. And completely inappropriate for a detective agency office at one o'clock in the afternoon.

He removed his hand.

"Not here."

Raven looked at him in a way that made it clear: "not here" wasn't "never."

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