Striker’s emotions are calm, the shield returning around his thoughts. He waits for me to stand, but he is far from complacent. I recognize the way he’s checking the exit now, assessing the risks between us and the front door.
Certainly, I won’t try to leave through the green door at the back of the venue, which is currently closest to us. I’m facing it, along with the vines and flowers painted around it, which seethe with magic, so much so that the images appear to move across the surface.
I have no doubt those vines could peel themselves off the wall, take full form, and strike us if we even dare to consider stepping through that door.
With deliberate movements, I stand, tip my chin at Jonah, and turn toward the room full of men. I pause for a moment as if I’m checking my whip, covering the heartbeats it takes for Striker to round the table and reach me.
When he’s an exact step behind me, I move forward, carving a path around the tables.
I sense his renewed smile, the way he moves with me, watching my back.
His masculinity was never so fragile that he was challenged by any aspect of my nature, my personality, or my power.
He was always brutally open with me.
Except when there were things he didn’t want me to know.
When he chose to deny my help because he thought he was protecting me.
Unbidden comes the memory of all the nights he lied to me about how he got those horrible bruises on his body, all the times he insisted they happened in training, never revealing to me the beatings he was taking to keep me safe. Not until I made him tell me.
I miss a step at the sudden hurt stabbing my chest.
The hot burn of tears behind my eyes.
These fucking memories!
I stab back at them, trying to cut them into small enough pieces that I won’t need to care about them anymore.
Our tormentors are dead. They were punished. This trauma does not have to be mine anymore.
It isnotmine anymore.
I make it to the door, push hard on it, and step out into the night air.
I’m acutely aware of Striker’s presence close behind me. Aware of the soft sound of the door swinging closed as I take a few more steps, and he with me.
Far,fartoo aware of his scent and the sudden warmth that seems to wrap around me, as if he slipped his arms around my waist and shared his body heat with me. Even though he hasn’t.
When did I become so accustomed to the cold that I only now feel warm?
“Fury,” Striker’s deep rumble sounds at my shoulder, and I half-turn my head toward him, fighting the need to close the gap between us and lean back into him, taking more warmth.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves.
I’m frozen in this moment of possibility.
The possibility of reconnecting, of finding out what it would feel like to step into his arms now that I’m changed…
But the grim reality of my situation returns to me and banishes the fleeting moment of heat.
I grapple with whether or not to warn him about the bones, but there are too many listening ears here. I was lucky the other night to be completely alone with the woman in the park when she told me about them.
We are not alone now. I count at least ten new supernaturals lurking in the surrounding shadows.
I force myself to break the moment. “I will see you tomorrow night, Striker Draven.”
That gives me only tomorrow to prepare for an encounter with the serpent shifter who seeks Typhon’s bones for his master. Barely any time to ready myself and my sisters, for I made no promises about going alone.
