Not because of the storm—it’s still screaming outside, rain pelting the old windows like it wants in—but because every muscle in my body feels like it’s been used, broken, put back together, and used again. My ass aches. My thighs burn. My throat is raw in a way that has nothing to do with sleep.
And whose fault is that?
Right. Captain Mine.
I want to glare at him across the table, I really do. But my neck still feels the ghost of his hand there, my scalp still tingles where he gripped my curls, and my brain short-circuits the second I remember what it felt like when he praised me last night. So no—glaring is off the table.
Instead, I shovel food down my throat like the starving little rookie I am. Eggs, toast, whatever greasy bacon the inn managed to wrangle up. I don’t stop chewing long enough to tease anyone, don’t lift my head to crack a smile. I just eat.
And that… apparently, is a crime.
Cole is sitting three seats down, leaning back in his chair like he owns the goddamn inn. Sunglasses indoors, hair slicked like he’s about to film a commercial. And he is staring. Daggers. Holes. An actual fucking laser beam into the side of my head.
I ignore it. Bite into toast. Keep chewing.
Doesn’t work.
“So…” Cole’s voice rings out over the clatter of silverware, pitched just loud enough for everyone to hear. “Curls lost his tongue.”
A ripple of amusement runs down the table. Mats smirks into his coffee. Shane mutters something about curses and sacrifices. Tyler almost chokes on his juice.
I keep chewing.
Cole grins wider. “What’s the matter, Mercer? Too tired to chirp? Or did somebody finally shut you up?”
My fork freezes halfway to my mouth. Heat blasts my face so fast it’s dizzying.
I can feel Damian sitting at the head of the table, calm as a shadow, unreadable. I don’t dare look at him.
I force the fork into my mouth, chew, swallow, like I didn’t hear Cole at all.
“Uh-huh,” Cole says, dragging it out. “That’s what I thought. Guess the pup’s finally housebroken.”
The whole table chuckles. Not mean, not really. Just blood in the water.
And I sit there, cheeks hot, ass aching, voice gone, stuffing my face with eggs like my life depends on it. Because poking back isn’t an option today. Not when the only words in my head are the ones Damian dragged out of me last night.
Cole spares me. Or maybe he just gets bored when I won’t rise to the bait. Either way, he shifts his attention down the table, grinning wide, sunglasses sliding down his nose.
“So, Cap,” he drawls, teeth flashing like he’s on camera, “what are we doing today in this haunted little murder-town? Gonna summon ghosts? Conduct a séance in the lobby? Trick-or-treat in a storm?”
The table laughs. Even Tyler manages a nervous chuckle, though his eyes keep darting toward the rain-streaked windows like he’s convinced a phantom goalie’s going to claw through the glass.
Damian doesn’t laugh. Of course he doesn’t.
“Training.”
The word drops out of him flat, heavy, no room for air.
The table goes silent. Forks pause midair. Chairs creak.
Everyone stares at him like he just announced we’re about to do wind sprints across a graveyard. Which, knowing him, wouldn’t even be out of the question.
Cole’s grin falters into a gape. “…Training? Here?” He gestures broadly, arms sweeping toward the dripping windows. “Captain, with all due respect—this place is half cemetery, half railway station. The only cardio we’re getting is running from the ghosts Shane’s about to summon.”
Shane perks up immediately. “I already have the candles.”
Viktor grunts. Low. Dismissing. Like even the weather wouldn’t dare touch him.
