Patrick couldn’t say the words buried in his chest, in his heart, too used to being hurt by the people who were supposed to care about him to give up pieces of himself like that despite everything they’d gone through. Jono’s purposeful omission about what had gone down in New York still rankled, but Patrick understood—eventually—where Jono’s position had come from in deciding to keep quiet.
Patrick didn’t like it, but he understood. He just needed some time to process it all, but it wouldn’t ever be enough to make Patrick leave Jono or the pack they were building. Nine months of being in a relationship with Jono still meant Patrick had things to learn, but one thing he was certain about was he would never leave Jono.
“Okay,” Jono said slowly before focusing on the road again.
“Are you guys done fighting?” Wade asked from the back seat. “Because it’s been awkward. And weird.”
“We got you your own room,” Patrick muttered, closing his eyes again.
“Yeah, but I can still hear you guys.”
“What have we said about eavesdropping?” Jono said mildly.
“That I should only do so strictly for pack purposes. But I mean, this is about the pack.”
“Wade.”
“Would you look at that? Someone slipped a candy bar in my pocket. I’m gonna need to eat it right away before it melts.”
“It’s snowing.”
“True, but you have the heater going.”
Patrick snorted softly before letting his brain go offline for however long it took Jono to drive them to The People’s Pawn Shop. Being able to fall asleep at a moment’s notice was an old skill he hadn’t yet lost.
Patrick jerked awake sometime later to Jono squeezing his hand and saying, “Pat. We’re here.”
Blinking rapidly, Patrick winced at how his eyes felt like sandpaper. He peered blearily out the windshield at the lit-up windows of the pawnshop. Patrick had been awake for a day and a half at this point; he’d give almost anything for a bed right now.
“You sure you don’t want me to go in with you?” Jono asked. “Place stinks of demon.”
Patrick fought back a yawn. “Owner is an ifrit, and there’s CCTV everywhere. I want you to stay off camera as much as possible.”
“No promises if he goes after you.”
Patrick shoved open the SUV door. “Fine.”
Patrick headed for the pawnshop, pushing open the doors and stepping inside. The heat was running full blast, and he soaked it in for the few seconds it took him to case the shop. No customers were present, but the owner was.
The ifrit watched him approach, his gaze flicking down to the dagger strapped to Patrick’s right thigh. “You again.”
“Me again,” Patrick said. He slipped his hand into his pocket and came up with the warrant a federal judge had only been too happy to sign. “With a warrant this time. Now play nice so I don’t have to arrest you.”
Patrick held up the piece of paper he’d waited three hours to clear that afternoon. It took some finagling, needing approval by the SOA, the PIA, and the US Department of the Preternatural. Patrick had taken an hour-long phone call that had given him a headache only a potion could fix. The red tape had been worth it, if only because they were maybe one step closer to figuring out where the Morrígan’s staff was.
“Let me see,” the ifrit said.
Patrick placed the warrant on the glass countertop of the display case between them and slid it toward the ifrit. The veins on the hand that retrieved it pulsed a little, looking like flowing lava beneath the skin for a second.
“You’re to release whatever the owner of this receipt signed over to you,” Patrick said.
Patrick pulled out the evidence bag with the receipt inside it, laying it flat on the countertop. He never took his fingers off the evidence bag.
The ifrit stared at the receipt for a long moment before laying the warrant on the counter. “If I say I don’t have it?”
Patrick left the warrant where it was. “The receipt was dated two weeks ago. The Westbergs were still within their first thirty-day cycle for repayment. You aren’t allowed to sell it.”
“I heard Westberg is dead.”
