“You can’t kill Verion for tattooing Morgan when he didn’t even know she was your mateuntilhe put the tattoo on her.”
“Morgan?”
“That’s her name,” he confirmed. “And I don’t think Morgan would appreciate you killing anyone simply because they saw her upper arm.” Reese felt like he was talking to an unstable toddler who could explode at any moment.
“Andtouched her,” Sebastian added.
“Visata, save me from hard-headed idiots,” Reese muttered.
“I’m notthatretired, Reese,” the assassin said in a low, deadly voice.
“Noted,” Reese huffed. He’d just need to remember to stay out of his way until he’d forgotten about this little exchange. “Just remember, this is a transfer, not an extraction. Nobody has to die.”
There was a dry laugh. “No promises, Reese. But I’ll try not to scare the shaman. Too much.”
Reese rolled his eyes. “And what about your female? Are you worried about scaring her?”
“Visata would not have blessed me with a female that was easy to scare. My Creator knows exactly who and what I need.” The words were so quiet Reese almost didn’t catch them. “Thank you, Reese.”
The line went dead. Reese sat back, running a hand through his hair. He trusted Sebastian to handle himself, but the man’s reputation was earned, not given. If anyone could terrify a room with a look, it was him.
Reese opened a file on his laptop and started preparing the official paperwork for Morgan’s arrival, thinking, not for the first time, that shaman work was often more about managing personalities than about policing the crazies–or maybe it was actually the same thing.
He leaned back and stared out at the sweeping Montana dusk, already picturing the chaos about to unfold at the airport.
At least I won’t be there to deal with it,he thought with a wry smile.
Sebastian had ended the call with Reese nearly an hour ago, and still he sat in the quiet of his truck, the world outsidepainted in the bruised purples and blues of early Montana twilight. He could smell the tarmac—jet fuel and pine, a strange combination that should’ve felt foreign but didn’t. Not after all these years. Airports were always liminal spaces, doorways for fate and violence alike. Tonight, apparently, he was supposed to be waiting for his future.
He stared at the rifle case on the passenger seat. He hadn’t brought it because he expected trouble, but because old habits died hard and he’d never trusted fate to do more than throw him a curveball or three. Besides, there was something reassuring about the weight of a well-balanced weapon. It was simple and honest—a rare quality in his world.
He pulled out his phone and dialed his king.
Bjorn answered on the first ring, as Sebastian suspected he would. “Sebastian?”
“At the airport,” Sebastian said, voice low, even. “Reese says my mate’s on her way in with the Chaos shaman. I wanted you to know I’ve got it handled.”
There was a pause—Bjorn’s heavy, thoughtful silence. “And how do you feel about that?”
Sebastian glanced out the windshield, watching a pair of young shifters unloading a cargo plane, laughing, oblivious. Jealousy stabbed him—stupid, pointless, but sharp. He knew these males, knew they’d met their mates, years ago. He’d watched them be able to shift and build lives with their females. He’d spent centuries waiting.
“I feel . . . ready,” Sebastian replied after a moment. “And if I don’t, it doesn’t matter. It’s happening.”
Bjorn’s voice softened, just a shade. “You’ll do right by her. Call me if there’s trouble.”
“Always,” Sebastian said before ending the call.
He glanced at his watch, noted the time and then stepped out of his vehicle, locked the truck, and slung the rifle overhis shoulder. He moved through the shadows at the edge of the small terminal, boots silent on concrete, until he found the perfect vantage—halfway up the rusting fire escape of a hangar, overlooking the private arrivals gate. From here, he could see the landing lights, the stretch of empty tarmac, the terminal windows. And, in the distance, the plane.
His heart thudded in his chest—not the frantic, mindless beat of battle, but a deep, seismic pounding that made him want to snarl at the world. Finally. Every rumor, every whispered “maybe this time,” every story about shifters finding their mates had led to this moment.
He set up the rifle, checked the scope, and switched on the laser. He wasn’t planning to shoot anyone. Not unless they gave him a reason. But he was also not about to meet his mate unarmed, or unprepared. He’d spent his life surviving by being a ghost in the dark. Tonight, he’d be both shadow and judge.
The sharp roar of the engines stung his sensitive hearing as the plane rolled to a stop, lights flashing. He watched as the door opened, the stairs descended, and a cluster of figures appeared at the top. Two males and three females. Nico led the way striding down the steps—Sebastian recognized him immediately, not just from his wild appearance, but that air of “I’m so tired of your shit” that only came with years of wrangling supernatural politics. He recognized the incubus demon next. Raphael. He should have known the male would be along for the ride. He and Nico were often seen together. Sebastian didn’t trust the demon, but then he didn’t trust anyone. Still, he’d never had a reason to kill him, at least not yet.
Two of the females walked together behind the first group. The third female was in the middle of the two males. That was Morgan. He could feel it in his bones. Her stride was proud and sharp as her eyes took in her surroundings. She was tall, curvy, and had long, dark hair that had a streak of blue in thefront. Her eyes were bright blue, and her skin was slightly sun kissed. Sebastian drank in the sight of her—a jolt of electricity straight to the center of his soul. The mate bond snapped into place, not overwhelming but undeniable. She was his. The world shifted, and for the first time in a very long time, Sebastian felt something like hope.
And then he watched as Nico’s hand wrapped around her elbow. Just a guiding touch, nothing more, but Sebastian’s vision narrowed. The rational part of him—the one that had kept him alive all these years—knew it was nothing. The rest of him, the part that was all teeth and claws and possessive instinct, wanted to put a hole through the shaman’s chest just to make a point.
