My hand lifted to my neck automatically, fingers brushing the thick, ridged scar left behind from the night that changed everything between us. Ambrose, though his back was to me, seemed to shudder, as if he could sense exactly where my thoughts had gone.
I wondered if he’d broken the pact we made almost a decade ago. If he’d undampened his senses around me.
Hades knew I was tempted to do the same just to see where his head was at.
But it was probably better that I didn’t know.
Things had been awkward and strained since the attack, and with another Samhain looming, it wasn’t worth risking what little we still had by tearing it apart completely.
My gaze drifted back to Ambrose. He stood tall and solid at the window, broad shoulders backlit by the amber glow of the streetlamps outside. His skin looked almost velvet-soft where the light touched it, his thick locs pulled into a bun just below the crown of his head.
I let out an awkward cough, but Ambrose didn’t stir.
Blowing out a breath, I grasped for something to say. “So... another Samhain. You ready to head back to the Shadow Realm?”
“Yep,” he replied, his gaze never leaving the window.
“You’re certainly dressed for it,” I said, gesturing to his all-black ensemble.
Ambrose’s head tilted, his onyx irises finally meeting mine. And suddenly, I felt incredibly ridiculous standing in our living room in a Hawaiian shirt and a neon-green novelty T-shirt that readHotter Than My Sunscreen Can Handle.
Six months ago, he would’ve smirked, maybe chuckled, and definitely would have thrown back a dry remark.
Instead, his gaze slid back to the window. He let out a slow breath and said, “Tonight could be the night you meet your fated mate. You might want to dress more appropriately.”
“Yeah. Of course,” I said, my gaze dropping to my sneakers as I wondered if I prayed hard enough, would the ground open up and swallow me whole.
For a moment, every part of me begged to challenge him—to ask that we either go back to the way things were or move forward into something new.Anythingother than this.
Instead, I turned on my heel and headed for my room. I yanked the stupid shirt and T-shirt off in a single motion, balled them in my fist, and tossed them onto the growing pile of discarded clothes in the corner.
Then I slumped onto the bed, dragging my hands through my hair.
Just get through tonight, Blaise. Figure it out tomorrow.
I’d been telling myself that for six months now.Deal with it later.It was the only way I’d managed to get through each day since that night.
Guilt roiled in my stomach, reminding me that whatever had changed between us was my fault and that I deserved to feel this way. The nine years before that night—the happiest years of my life—now felt like they belonged to someone else.
With a final sigh, I pushed myself to my feet and crossed the room to the chest of drawers. A single clean T-shirt lay crudelyfolded in the middle drawer. As I pulled it over my head, I told myself that if I wasn’t summoned tonight, I’d do my laundry tomorrow.
Of the two of us, Ambrose had always been the neat freak. His constant nagging used to keep my messiness relatively in check. Without it, my bedroom had slipped into disorder, clothes and half-finished intentions littering every surface.
I hated the mess. And it wasn’t because I didn’t care. It was just that, no matter how much I wanted to tidy it, the energy to start never seemed to arrive.
With a final deep breath, I turned my back on the messy manifestation of my feelings and left my bedroom—potentially for the last time. When the door clicked shut behind me, I found myself lingering in the hallway.
Ambrose had left his bedroom door open.
The bed was perfectly made—hospital corners and all—the charcoal-gray coverlet pulled tight without a wrinkle in sight. A pair of black slippers sat beside the bed, precisely where his feet would land when he woke, toes aligned with military precision. On the dark wood dresser, a neat row of cologne bottles stood like little glass soldiers awaiting inspection, each spaced evenly apart. Not a single speck of dust dared linger anywhere in the room.
The only sign of anything personal was the shelf of mementos.
Ambrose kept one from every job we’d ever worked together. I knew each piece by heart: the dinted beer bottle cap from our first bouncing gig together; the torn subway ticket from our earliest days running security, before we could afford the vans and had to rely on public transport; the poker chip from a month-long job in Vegas.
I’d teased him when I first realized he’d been collecting them. Then I’d found it oddly endearing. And then every year beforethe summoning—except this one—we’d pull the mementos down and spend an evening reliving the last year together.
But the collecting had stopped after our last job together.
