“Have you heard his accent?” Patrick asked.
“I’msurroundedby his accent now.”
Jono shoved Wade toward the car hire counter. “Let’s go. We need to get the cars and our luggage, and then head for the hotel.”
“We could’ve stayed at the Dorchester,” Sage said with a deep sigh.
“The government doesn’t pay for comfort,” Patrick reminded her.
The rest of themcouldhave stayed at the Dorchester, but the pack was sticking together, and since Patrick’s job dictated their movements in terms of lodging, they’d gone with the Sanderson London.
Getting there took time. They had to confirm their car reservations, get their luggage, and then go retrieve their rentals at the offsite lot. Jono had spent years driving an automatic in New York when he got behind the steering wheel at all. Having to drive a manual again required dredging up the skill from the back of his mind. When he inevitably ground the gears together, Patrick gave him a sidelong look.
“Should I drive?” Patrick asked.
Jono rolled his eyes. “No.”
It came back to him—the manual driving, the city streets, and the people who sounded like he did. Driving into London after years of being away was a shock to the system that left Jono at a loss for words for miles on end.
“Are you all right?” Patrick asked when they were some distance down the M4.
“I will be,” Jono said, refusing to lie.
Patrick reached over and settled his hand on Jono’s left thigh, his touch familiar in a way London hadn’t been at the end.
“I won’t let anyone hurt you,” Patrick promised.
Jono smiled tightly, teeth clenched together. “This isn’t your jurisdiction. Don’t do anything that might get you arrested.”
“I’ll have some legal authority with whoever I end up working with out of the WSA.”
“Your badge isn’t going to get you out of trouble like it does in the States.”
“The gods will.”
“Let’s not rely on those arseholes, yeah?”
Jono glanced at the rearview mirror, seeing Sage’s car behind them, refusing to let anyone merge between them. She was a deft hand at driving a manual, a knack Sage had probably picked up from some of the expensive sports cars she and Marek shared.
“I have a feeling we won’t get a say in that.” Patrick scraped his fingernails gently over Jono’s jeans-clad thigh. “If you got the chance to come back here and stay free and clear, would you?”
“I’m not leaving you.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“You’re my home, Pat. The only pack I’ve ever had. London doesn’t have anything for me. Not anymore.”
He’d wanted it to, when he was younger, but he’d learned over time that a city couldn’t care for you—you needed a pack for that.
But the memories came back to him on the drive into the city center: the years growing up in Tottenham, falling in and out of the wrong crowds that could never seem to fully leave the council estates behind. Living on the outskirts of all the packs in London, barely scraping by with jobs in pubs and construction work. He’d left nothing behind and was returning with everything he’d ever wanted, found on another shore.
Jono wasn’t willing to lose any of it.
He knew Emma would hold the line back in New York while they chased after the Morrígan’s staff. Jono hoped all the precautions they’d scrambled to set up wouldn’t fall apart, and that everyone they’d left behind would be safe.
“When will Lucien ring you?” Jono asked.
Patrick shrugged. “Whenever he gets settled. I’m assuming he chartered a private flight over here for himself and whoever he ordered along.”
