But I can see in his face that he doesn't believe it. Whiskey doesn't do subtle. Never has, from what I've seen. He's all blunt force and honest emotion, which is probably exactly what someone like Plague needs. But he doesn't seem to realize that yet.
"Come on," I say, slinging my small backpack over my shoulder. "Let's go get some terrible diner coffee and pretend we're normal people for a few hours."
"Hey. This place is top fuckin' notch."
The elevator ride down is mercifully short, though Whiskey spends the entire time fidgeting like he's got ants in his pants. He keeps checking his phone, then shoving it back in his pocket, then pulling it out again thirty seconds later.
"Anything important?" I ask.
"Nah, just..." He shows me the screen. "Wraith keeps texting. Wants to make sure you're okay." He glances over at me. "In a threatening way."
I smile despite myself. "He's sweet."
"He's fucking smitten," Whiskey corrects with a grin that's more genuine than anything I've seen from him since we left the hotel room. "Never seen him like this before. It's actually kind of adorable, in a terrifying seven-foot-tall murder machine kind of way."
I grin, too. "More like a cuddle machine."
And afuckingmachine.
But I'm not about to say that out loud.
Whiskey arches an eyebrow at me like I'm completely insane, but he doesn't comment. Guess he's seen a different side of Wraith that's only reserved for alphas. To be fair, therewerea few Whiskey-sized holes in the walls when I kept them all from tearing each other apart. And Plague's words are still fresh in my mind.
The elevator dings softly as we reach the lobby. Through the glass doors, I see Plague standing near the entrance, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, looking like he'd rather beanywhere else. Although his eyes light up a fraction when he sees me.
"He's not going to run, is he?" I ask, only half-joking.
Whiskey follows my gaze and snorts. "Nah. He's too polite to ditch us. But he's definitely gonna spend the entire meal acting like he's got a stick up his ass."
"Bigger stick than usual?"
"Way bigger. Like, telephone pole sized."
Despite everything, I laugh.
We make our way across the lobby, past early-rising business travelers and a few night shift workers heading home. I keep my head down, but nobody gives us a second glance. It's busy enough in here that we're just another group of people getting an early start to their day.
Plague falls into step beside us as we exit the hotel, his posture rigid and formal. "The diner is three blocks north," he says without preamble. "Twenty-four hour establishment, minimal security cameras, cash only."
Whiskey's grin falters. "Wait, no Waffle House?"
"Too busy," Plague says flatly.
Whiskey lets out a groan like Plague just ruined his life.
"You've really thought this through," I observe.
"I believe in being prepared," Plague replies stiffly.
Whiskey rolls his eyes. "He probably has escape routes mapped out too. And contingency plans for contingency plans. Whereare we gonna go if the shit hits the fan, Plague? The tiles in the ceiling, Jurassic Park style?"
"As a matter of fact?—"
"Shit, Plague. It'sbreakfast."
I tune out their bickering as we walk, focusing instead on the city waking up around us. Early morning joggers pound past on the sidewalk, eyes flicking to us but not stopping to find out who we are. The sky is starting to lighten at the edges, gold and violet and orange shining through the morning fog.
It's been so long since I've been able to walk freely through a city without constantly looking over my shoulder. Even now, with the threat of Valek and the possibility of discovery hanging over us, I feel free and safe.
