He leans in slightly, not touching, justthere,and says in that low, rumbling voice, “Your scent... it reminds me of first light on bloodied snow.”
I blink.
“What?”
“It is a good thing.”
“Oh. Well. Thanks?” I stammer, my face going warm. “I think?”
“I mean no offense. It is... sharp. Clean. And fierce.”
“Yeah, well,” I murmur, “you smell like bonfires and testosterone.”
He grins.
I swallow.
The space between us vibrates with unsaid things. With tension. With heat.
I should step back.
I don’t.
We just stand there in the too-small kitchen, pretending like time isn’t holding its breath and the walls aren’t shrinking with the heat building between us. I busy myself wiping the already-clean counter with a paper towel I don’t need, and he sharpens his ridiculous spear with the kind of intensity usually reserved for serial killers and samurai.
I don’t ask how the spear fit into the truck without impaling the upholstery. I don’t ask how it’s glowing faintly now, like it’s got its own personal power source. I don’t ask anything, because the silence between us feels like something sacred.
And then my phone rings.
Because of course it does.
I flinch. Kursk growls.
“It’s just the phone,” I mutter, grabbing it off the counter and glancing at the caller ID. “Damn. It’s Trish.”
Kursk raises one eyebrow. “The one with the glare of a carrion hawk.”
“Youreallyhated that interview, huh?”
“She asked if your madness was hereditary.”
“Fair.”
I swipe to answer. “Hello?”
Trish Sanchez doesn’t waste time. “Hey, Olivia. Sorry to bug you, but have you heard what happened behind the bowling alley?”
I blink. “No. Why? Someone throw a gutter ball too hard?”
She doesn’t laugh. “There’s been… another attack. The police aren’t releasing much, but my guy on the inside says it’s bad. Like, 'pieces-missing' bad.”
A cold knot twists in my stomach. “When?”
“An hour ago. EMTs couldn’t save him.”
My eyes flick to Kursk. His face doesn’t change, but something in him tightens. He’s listening. And he knows.
“Did they see anything?”
