I grin and some tension bleeds out of my shoulders.
“Aw, were you worried about us?” Cruz teases, tossing his arm over my shoulder and looking around at the section we’re standing in.
I look at Gage, my gaze sliding from his intense stare to his hand. “Did you break anything?”
His hand flexes, and he shakes his head slowly, once.
“Did he break anything?” I keep my voice as even as possible, ignoring the way my heart beats faster.
He dips his chin.
“Did you make it hurt?” I tilt my head to the side.
“Yes,” he murmurs.
“Good.” I slide the book I was reading back into the little empty spot on the shelf. “I got what I needed.”
Gage’s eyes linger on mine, his head tilting slightly to one side. The muscle in his jaw tenses, then releases. The corner of his mouth twitches, almost imperceptibly, and he blinks once, slowly, like someone adjusting the focus on a camera.
“You sure? Because I think you need”—Cruz reaches over my head, plucking a paperback—”some werewolf smut.” He waggles the cover in front of my face.
I breathe out a quiet laugh. “Like I have time to read.”
“But if you did?” Cruz slides the book into my hands, his fingers lingering against mine.
The cover is objectively stunning, and I run my thumb along the spine before passing it back. “Why not? I’m open to new things.”
Cruz's eyes track slowly from the book to my face, lingering at my lips before meeting my gaze. The corner of his mouth lifts in that crooked half-smile that transforms his face from merely handsome to something dangerous. He tucks the book onto a nearby shelf without looking away from me. “Noted,” he says, voice dropping to a register that seems to vibrate directly against my skin.
We walk out into the waning sunlight. My shoulders relax as I step between them, my fingertips brushing against Gage's knuckles—still flecked with someone else's dried blood. Cruz holds the door, his eyes catching mine with a question I answer by stepping closer, not away.
The three of us fall into step on the sidewalk, our shadows stretching long behind us, perfectly aligned.
40
BELLAMY
The front door crashes open,rattling the coat hooks. A boot thumps against the wall, then another, followed by Lola's humming—that particular melody she only uses after a good night, something with too many high notes that she never quite hits. I flinch at the noise but don't look up from my laptop screen, though I haven't typed a word in twenty minutes. Outside the window, streetlights blur through a thin fog, and somewhere a car alarm starts, then stops.
Keys jangle, followed by the thud of a bag hitting the floor. “You will not believe the night I just had,” she announces from somewhere near the kitchen.
“I probably will,” I call back, not lifting my eyes from the screen.
The floorboards creak. When I glance up, she's leaning against the doorframe, hair falling from what was probably a neat bun hours ago. Beckett's faded blue hoodie hangs off one shoulder, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Her eyes are bright despite the shadows beneath them.
Her gaze drifts to the coffee table, landing on the hardcover with its crisp dust jacket. She freezes mid-stretch, mouth parting slightly. “You picked it up.”
“I said I would. I got it yesterday.”
She crosses the room and scoops it up, thumbing the spine reverently. “You’re a saint.”
“I know.”
She drops down beside me, flipping through the first few pages like she’s just checking that it’s real. “God, I needed this. Everything’s been so”—she gestures vaguely—”loud.”
I nod because I know exactly what she means.
She glances at me sideways, taking in my posture, the blue light of my laptop reflecting in my eyes. “You look very perky for two o’clock in the morning.”
