1
Six yearsout from the Battle of Samhain and Patrick Collins still wasn’t used to sleeping in, but he was getting better at it. The man dozing beside him in their king-sized bed certainly helped with that.
Jonothon de Vere lay on his stomach, arms curled underneath the pillow, head turned toward Patrick, lips parted a little as he breathed softly. The dark curve of his lashes brushed his cheeks, a faint prick of crow’s feet shadowing the corners of his eyes, black hair sleep-mussed. He’d gotten it cut recently, in deference to the encroaching hot New York City summer, and Patrick itched to run his fingers through it. But Jono had crawled into bed sometime around 3:00 a.m. after a stint at Tempest, dealing with pack issues.
Patrick would have been at the bar to help, as was his duty as co-alpha of the New York City god pack, but his side job as an expert witness for the Supernatural Operations Agency was currently taking up most of his time this week. Prepping for a high-profile federal trial in the Southern District of New York to help put away a coven that was barely one step removed from the mafia was important, but so was the peacekeeping they both did with the packs under their protection.
Still, he wasn’t looking forward to getting out of bed just then. Notwhen he had everything he ever wanted within reach. Patrick soaked in the sight of his lover and marveled that he got this. That he’d survived everything—from war to gods to hell itself—to have a quiet morning like this was a gift he never took for granted.
He reached out and carefully brushed a few strands of black hair away from Jono’s forehead, resisting the urge to trail his fingers across the sharp planes of his lover’s face. Patrick wanted Jono to have time to rest, but apparently, he wasn’t as stealthy as he’d hoped.
“What time is it?” Jono murmured, not bothering to open his eyes, his British accent thick with the North London cadence of his youth when he was tired.
“Not worth you getting up,” Patrick replied just as softly. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Hm.” Jono slid his arm out from beneath the pillow, wrapping it around Patrick’s torso to haul him closer with an easy strength that could break bone and snap steel but was only ever used with care when touching Patrick. “Don’t have to apologize for that, but if you mean to, I’ll take a cuppa in bed.”
Patrick snorted out a laugh, looping his own arm over Jono’s torso. “You’d have to let me go in order for me to get you your twig water.”
“You say that like you haven’t been getting me tea since we first lived together in Chelsea.”
Thinking about the apartment they’d shared when Patrick first came to New York City nearly a decade ago made him smile a little wistfully. These days, they called a four-story building in Tribeca home. Patrick still refused to know how much it had cost Marek Taylor to buy a building full of condos, pay everyone to move out, and then convert it into a single connected home before gifting it to him and Jono. Patrick hadn’t grown up rich, and Marek’s billions were his own, but he wasn’t going to say no to a home, not when it came with Jono and the rest of their pack.
Still, there was something to be said of that first year together when they’d formed their pack out of a tiny one-bedroom apartment. Back then, both of them had been lost souls looking for a port in the storm, and they’d found it in each other. The soulbond that still tiedthem together was something Patrick didn’t think he could live without, the same way he couldn’t live without Jono.
“I have a meeting to get ready for,” Patrick said, making no effort to move.
Jono made a grumpy sound, still not opening his eyes. “You could always not go. It’s not like we need the money.”
They really didn’t. Their god pack subsisted on tithes from all the other packs in the five boroughs. On top of that, Sage Taylor, their dire, was married to Marek, and she had no problem making sure all their personal bank accounts were filled for whatever was necessary. Patrick was just glad they could afford to keep Wade Espinoza fed. Having a fledgling dragon in their pack would be hard on the wallet otherwise.
“I like making the government pay a stupid amount of money for my expertise.”
Jono cracked open one eye, the wolf-bright blue of his iris standing out starkly. Only god pack werecreatures had eyes that brilliantly blue or a metallic amber, courtesy of the god strain of the werevirus running through their veins. It marked them prominently in society, and they used such a distinguishing characteristic to advocate on behalf of the werecreatures who could pass as human.
Patrick, being a mage, shouldn’t have been an alpha of a god pack. He couldn’t be infected by the werevirus because of his magic, which meant he couldn’t shift forms. But he was pack, and he’d earned his spot to lead their god pack, and no one questioned his place.
“You need to get a new hobby,” Jono grumbled.
Patrick laughed, lifting his head so he could kiss the corner of Jono’s mouth. “Maybe one day.”
He was no longer a special agent with the SOA, and while he sometimes missed working a case in the field, Patrick had no desire to return to it. Not like he could. The SOA would never hire him back in that capacity, not after the Battle of Samhain and everything that came to light before that.
Patrick was fine with where the fallout had settled, but it meant he’d had to figure out a different professional tract because he wascrap at bartending. Being an expert on how black magic could harm a person’s soul while living with his own soul wound was a lived experience few others had.
Sound rumbled in Jono’s chest as he turned his head, capturing Patrick’s mouth in a lazy kiss. Patrick let him, sliding closer, bare legs tangling together. Neither of them wore pajamas during the summer, and Patrick made do with a T-shirt and boxers during winter because Jono put off so much heat. His skin was warm beneath Patrick’s fingers, muscles firm beneath. Patrick used to think when he was younger that he’d never have this—a pack, a family, a man he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. In the end, the fight had been more than worth it.
He broke the kiss with a sigh, pressing their foreheads together. “I’ll bring you some tea, and then you can go back to sleep.”
“I promised Sage I’d pick up Lillian from school today after I finish meeting with a couple of packs in Queens.”
Their niece was almost five, as she liked to tell everyone, and in a private pre-K school that cost more than most people’s yearly salary. Some legal wrangling had been done to allow for a god pack member to always be present at the school as Lillian’s private security. Patrick had done his own walk-through, and while the school was public property and couldn’t hold a threshold, he’d discreetly set some protective wards. While that wasn’t his magic’s affinity, he’d do anything for his niece.
“You’re going to need all the rest you can get before you go over.” Patrick pushed himself up on one elbow and rolled away. Jono groaned but let him go. “I’ll be back.”
He took a quick shower, dressing in jeans and a T-shirt rather than a suit. He saved those for trial, and this was just a preparation meeting with the SOA Special Agent in Charge Henry Ng and the US Attorneys’ Office.
Patrick headed downstairs for the kitchen, putting the kettle on the stove to boil before making his coffee from the fancy coffee machine Jono had gifted him last Christmas to replace the one Wadeaccidentally broke. Patrick swore it was something out of NASA, but it really did make an excellent cup of coffee.
