Hunt woke the moment he scented a male in his room, his fingers wrapping around the knife under his pillow. He opened an eye, grip tightening on the hilt, remembering every window and doorway, every possible would-be weapon that he could wield to his advantage—
He found Syrinx sitting on the pillow beside his, the chimera’s smooshed-up face peering into his own.
Hunt groaned, a breath exploding out of him. Syrinx just swatted at his face.
Hunt rolled out of reach. “Good morning to you, too,” he mumbled, scanning the room. He’d definitely shut the door last night. It now gaped wide open. He glanced at the clock.
Seven. He hadn’t noticed Bryce get up for work—hadn’t heard her buzzing about the apartment or the music he knew she liked to play.
Granted, he hadn’t heard his own door open, either. He’d slept like the dead. Syrinx rested his head on Hunt’s shoulder, and huffed a mournful sigh.
Solas spare him. “Why do I get the feeling that if I give you breakfast, it’ll actually be your second or third meal of the day?”
An innocent blink of those round eyes.
Unable to help himself, Hunt scratched the little beast behind his silly ears.
The sunny apartment beyond his room was silent, the light warming the pale wood floors. He eased from the bed, hauling on his pants. His shirt was a wreck from last night’s events, so he left it on the floor, and— Shit. His phone. He grabbed it from the bedside table and flicked through the messages. Nothing new, no missions from Micah, thank the gods.
He left the phone on the dresser beside the door and padded into the great room.
No sign or sound. If Quinlan had just left—
He stormed across the space, to the hall on the other side. Her bedroom door was cracked, as if Syrinx had seen himself out, and—
Sound asleep. The heap of blankets had been twisted and tossed around, and Quinlan lay belly-down on the bed, wrapped around a pillow. The position was almost identical to the one she’d been in last night in the club, flung over Juniper.
Hunt was pretty sure most people would consider the low-backed gray nightgown, edged with pale pink lace, to be a shirt. Syrinx trotted past, leaping on the bed and nosing her bare shoulder.
The tattoo down her back—scrolling, beautiful lines in some alphabet he didn’t recognize—rose and fell with each deep breath. Bruises he hadn’t noted last night peppered her golden skin, already greenish thanks to the Fae blood in her.
And he was staring at her. Like a fucking creep.
Hunt twisted for the hall, his wings suddenly too big, his skin too tight, when the front door swung open. A smooth movement had his knife angled behind him—
Juniper breezed in, a brown bag of what smelled like chocolate pastries in one hand, a spare set of keys in another. She stopped dead as she spied him in the bedroom hallway.
Her mouth popped open in a silent Oh.
She looked him over—not in the way some females did until they noted the tattoos, but in the way that told him she realized a half-naked male stood in Bryce’s apartment at seven in the morning.
He opened his mouth to say it wasn’t how it looked, but Juniper just strutted past, her delicate hooves clipping on the wood floors. She shoved into the bedroom, jostling the bag, and Syrinx went wild, curly tail wagging as Juniper trilled, “I brought chocolate croissants, so get that bare ass out of bed and into some pants.”
Bryce lifted her head to see Juniper, then Hunt in the hall. She didn’t bother to tug the hem of her nightgown over her teal lace underwear as she squinted. “What?”
Juniper strode to the bed and looked like she was about to plop onto it, but glanced at him.
Hunt stiffened. “It’s not what it seems.”
Juniper gave him a sweet smile. “Then some privacy would be nice.”
He backed down the hall, into the kitchen. Coffee. That sounded like a good plan.
He opened a cabinet, fishing out some mugs. Their voices flitted out to him anyway.
“I tried calling you, but your phone wasn’t on—I figured you probably lost it,” Juniper said.
Blankets rustled. “Are you all right?”
“Totally fine. News reports are still speculating, but they think human rebels from Pangera did it, wanting to start trouble here. There’s video footage from the loading dock that shows their insignia on a case of wine. They think that’s how the bomb got in.”
So the theory had held overnight. Whether it was truly connected to the Horn remained to be seen. Hunt made a note to check with Isaiah about the request to meet with Briggs as soon as Juniper left.
“Is the Raven totally wrecked?”
A sigh. “Yeah—really bad. No idea when it’ll be open again. I finally got a hold of Fury last night, and she said Riso’s mad enough that he put a bounty on the head of whoever was responsible.”
No surprise there. Hunt had heard that despite his laughing nature, when the butterfly shifter got pissed, he went all in. Juniper went on, “Fury’s probably coming home because of it. You know she can’t resist a challenge.”
Burning Solas. Throwing Fury Axtar into this mess was a bad fucking idea. Hunt spooned coffee beans into the gleaming chrome machine built into the kitchen wall.
Quinlan asked tightly, “So she’ll come back home for a bounty, but not to see us?”
A silence. Then, “You weren’t the only one who lost Danika that night, B. We all dealt with it in different ways. Fury’s answer to her pain was to bail.”
“Your therapist tell you that?”
“I’m not fighting with you about this again.”
More silence. Juniper cleared her throat. “B, I’m sorry for what I did.
You’ve got a bruise—” “It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not—”
“It is. I get it, I—”
Hunt turned on the machine’s coffee grinder to give them some privacy. He might have ground the beans into a fine powder instead of
rough shards, but when he finished, Juniper was saying, “So, the gorgeous angel who’s making you coffee right now—”
Hunt grinned at the coffee machine. It had been a long, long while since anyone had bothered describing him as anything but Umbra Mortis, the Knife of the Archangels.
“No, no, and no,” Bryce cut her off. “Jesiba is having me do a classified job, and Hunt was assigned to protect me.”
“Is being shirtless in your house part of that assignment?”
“You know how these Vanir males are. They live to show off their muscles.”
Hunt rolled his eyes as Juniper laughed. “I’m shocked you’re even letting him stay here, B.”
“I didn’t really have a choice.” “Hmmm.”
A thump of bare feet on the ground. “You know he’s listening, right? His feathers are probably so puffed up he won’t be able to fit through the door.”
Hunt leaned against the counter, the coffee machine doing the growling for him as Bryce stalked into the hallway. “Puffed up?”
She certainly hadn’t bothered to fulfill her friend’s pants request. Each step had the pale pink lace of the nightgown’s hem brushing against her upper thighs, tugging up slightly to reveal that thick, brutal scar on the left leg. His stomach twisted at the sight of what he’d done to her.
“Eyes up here, Athalar,” she drawled. Hunt scowled.
But Juniper was following closely on Bryce’s heels, her hooves clopping lightly on the wood floors as she held up the pastry bag. “I just wanted to drop these off. I’ve got rehearsal in …” She fished her phone from the pocket of her tight black leggings. “Oh shit. Now. Bye, B.” She rushed to the door, chucking the pastry bag on the table with impressive aim.
“Good luck—call me later,” Bryce said, already going to inspect her friend’s peace offering.
Juniper lingered in the doorway long enough to say to him, “Do your job, Umbra.”
Then she was gone.
Bryce slid into one of the white leather chairs at the glass table and sighed as she pulled out a chocolate croissant. She bit in and moaned. “Do legionaries eat croissants?”
He remained leaning against the counter. “Is that an actual question?”
Crunch-munch-swallow. “Why are you up so early?”
“It’s nearly seven thirty. Hardly early by anyone’s count. But your chimera nearly sat on my face, so how could I not be up? And how many people, exactly, have keys to this place?”
She finished off her croissant. “My parents, Juniper, and the doorman. Speaking of which … I need to give those keys back—and get another copy made.”
“And get me a set.”
The second croissant was halfway to her mouth when she set it down. “Not going to happen.”
He held her stare. “Yes, it is. And you’ll change the enchantments so I can get access—”
She bit into the croissant. “Isn’t it exhausting to be an alphahole all the time? Do you guys have a handbook for it? Maybe secret support groups?”
“An alpha-what?”
“Alphahole. Possessive and aggressive.” She waved a hand at his bare torso. “You know—you males who rip your shirt off at the slightest provocation, who know how to kill people in twenty different ways, who have females falling over themselves to be with you; and when you finally bang one, you go full-on mating-frenzy with her, refusing to let another male look at or talk to her, deciding what and when she needs to eat, what she should wear, when she sees her friends—”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Your favorite hobbies are brooding, fighting, and roaring; you’ve perfected about thirty different types of snarls and growls; you’ve got a cabal of hot friends, and the moment one of you mates, the others fall like dominoes, too, and gods help you when you all start having babies
—”
He snatched the croissant out of her hand. That shut her up.
Bryce gaped at him, then at the pastry, and Hunt wondered if she’d bite him as he lifted it to his mouth. Damn, but it was good.
“One,” he told her, yanking over a chair and turning it backward for him to straddle. “The last thing I want to do is fuck you, so we can take the whole Sex, Mating, and Baby option off the table. Two, I don’t have friends, so there sure as fuck will be no couples-retreat lifestyle anytime soon. Three, if we’re complaining about people who are clothing-optional …” He finished the croissant and gave her a pointed look. “I’m not the one who parades around this apartment in a bra and underwear every morning while getting dressed.”
He’d worked hard to forget that particular detail. How after her morning run, she did her hair and makeup in a routine that took her more than an hour from start to finish. Wearing only what seemed to be an extensive, and rather spectacular, assortment of lingerie.
Hunt supposed if he looked the way she did, he’d wear that shit, too. Bryce only glared at him—his mouth, his hand—and grumbled,
“That was my croissant.”
The coffee machine beeped, but he kept his ass planted in the chair. “You’re going to get me a new set of keys. And add me to the enchantments. Because it’s part of my job, and being assertive isn’t the first sign of being an alphahole—it’s a sign of me wanting to make sure you don’t wind up dead.”
“Stop cursing so much. You’re upsetting Syrinx.”
He leaned close enough to note gold flecks in her amber eyes. “You have the dirtiest mouth I’ve ever heard, sweetheart. And from the way you act, I think you might be the alphahole here.”
She hissed.
“See?” he drawled. “What was it you said? An assortment of snarls and growls?” He waved a hand. “Well, there you go.”
She tapped her dusk-sky nails on the glass table. “Don’t ever eat my croissant again. And stop calling me sweetheart.”
Hunt threw her a smirk and rose. “I need to head to the Comitium for my clothes. Where are you going to be?”
Bryce scowled and said nothing.
“The answer,” Hunt went on, “is with me. Anywhere you or I go, we go together from now on. Got it?”
She flipped him off. But she didn’t argue further.
