“We’ll make it work,” Jono promised in a gruff voice. “Emma will keep hold of our territory, and we’ll do what the gods require in London.”
Patrick slumped forward and rested his forehead against Jono’s shoulder. “No chance I could convince you to stay behind?”
“No.”
“Not even with a blowjob?”
Jono squeezed his hip. “Wouldn’t say no to that, but you need a kip and I need to get to work.”
Patrick sighed heavily but didn’t move. “I want you safe.”
“I’m safest right by your side. We’re better together. You know that.”
Jono shifted a little, forcing Patrick to lift his head. Jono tipped Patrick’s chin up, leaning down to kiss him slow and deep, tasting the beer on his lips. If the gods wanted them to fight, then they would fight—together. Patrick needed to accept this was one argument he would never win.
“You’re knackered. Go to bed and I’ll see you tonight,” Jono said after he broke the kiss.
Patrick licked his lips. “You sure you don’t want that blowjob?”
“No.”
“Fine.”
He sounded so grumpy that Jono could only laugh, despite everything going on. “I’ll see you tonight.”
“Yeah. Leave me the car in case I need to go into the office.”
Jono nodded, and Patrick tugged him down for one last kiss. He no longer smelled of anger, but the worry remained. Jono doubted it would ever go away.
* * *
It wasclose to dawn on Saturday, last call fifteen minutes away, when the door to Tempest was pushed open and a familiar heartbeat filtered through Jono’s hearing. He looked up from drying a glass, watching as Patrick came his way. The only people in the bar besides them were the werewolf acting as a bouncer at the door and a group of witches who’d been consoling a member of their coven going through a breakup. Most of them weren’t capable of driving, and if they weren’t going to call a taxi or an Uber to get home, Jono would do it for them.
“Hey,” Patrick said.
His blank expression was all the hint Jono needed to know that Patrick had heard back from Setsuna. Jono nodded over at the only occupied table. “Let me get them sorted, and then we’ll chat.”
It took upward of fifteen minutes to close out their tabs and get them a taxi with the help of their only sober friend. She tipped him well enough, and Jono handed the twenty dollars to his employee watching the door.
“Head home. I’m closing up shop early,” Jono said.
The werewolf didn’t argue, just took the money and left. On a hot night like this, no one had to grab any jackets from the employees-only room. Jono closed the door and locked it. The protective wards etched into the doorframe flared up brightly for a split second before the magic embedded in them faded away. When he turned around, Patrick was behind the bar, pulling a bottle of Macallan 12 Year whiskey off the shelf.
“Did you drive?” Jono asked.
“Parked out front in Marek’s spot,” Patrick said.
When Marek had bankrolled the bar for Emma and Leon some years back, he’d bought rights to the parking spot directly out front on the street. It was convenient on nights like this.
“If you’re drinking, then I’m driving.”
Patrick pulled down two glasses. “We’re both drinking.”
Jono scanned the dirty bar, mentally cataloguing everything that needed to be cleaned up before he left for the night, and opted to take a break. “All right.”
Patrick placed both glasses on the bar counter and then wrote out a silence ward between them. The sigil glowed softly, the pale blue color of Patrick’s magic a familiar sight. Patrick’s bitter scent—a hint at the damage to his soul and magic—settled around them, telling Jono he’d lowered his shields. Beneath the bitterness was a tangle of sharper scents that always spoke of stress.
“What did the government say?” Jono asked.
