She laughed, a bright unexpected sound. Then her eyes met his across the table. They both looked away.
“I should clean up,” she said, standing to gather plates.
“I can help…”
“No.” She softened it with, “You organized the entire kitchen. The least I can do is wash dishes.”
He retreated to the living room and his torture device of a couch. Through the archway, he could see her at the sink, sleeves pushed up, humming tunelessly.
He made himself look away.
The argumentabout watch schedules started at eleven PM and lasted thirty minutes.
“I don’t need you to stay awake all night,” Hazel said, arms crossed. She’d changed into pajamas: soft pants and a tank top. Marcus kept his eyes firmly on her face.
“Standard protection protocol requires rotating watches.”
“Protocol.” She made the word sound like a curse. “I’m perfectly capable of sensing magical threats.”
“The assassins yesterday suggest otherwise.”
Her eyes flashed. “I was distracted.”
“By what?”
She didn’t answer. Her mouth pressed into a stubborn line.
“It doesn’t matter.” She crossed her arms tighter. “I don’t need babysitting while I sleep.”
“It’s not babysitting. It’s professional protection.”
“Protocol. I know.” She threw up her hands. “Fine. You take first watch. Wake me at three.”
She stalked to the bedroom and shut the door firmly. Marcus settled onto the couch, wincing as a spring jabbed his back, and pulled out case files. If he was going to be awake, he could at least be productive.
The couch proved even less comfortable than anticipated. Springs dug into his back no matter how he positioned himself. The cushions smelled of mildew and regret. He’d slept in worse conditions—hell dimensions rarely offered luxury accommodations—but something about this particular discomfort grated.
An hour passed. Then two. The cabin creaked and settled around him. Somewhere in the walls, mice scurried. Outside, wind rattled the windows. Inside the bedroom, he could hear Hazel tossing and turning, the brass bed frame protesting her restlessness.
At one-thirty, the bedroom door opened. She emerged looking rumpled and frustrated.
“Can’t sleep?” he asked.
“The bed smells like mothballs and broken dreams.” She padded to the couch and perched on the arm, not quite joining him but not retreating either. “And it’s too quiet. I’m used to town noises: cars, drunk people arguing outside the bar, Mr.Patterson’s dog barking at nothing.” She glanced at the papers spread across his lap. “What are you reading?”
“Precedent cases for supernatural witness protection.”
“Thrilling.” She peered at the dense legal text. “Have many witnesses actually made it to trial?”
“All of mine have.”
“How many is that?”
He looked up, considering. “Too many to count. Centuries of cases.”
“And the ones who didn’t make it?”
He paused. The question cut closer than she knew. “There was one. She wasn’t a witness. She was…” He stopped. Discussing Eliza with Hazel felt like crossing a line he couldn’t uncross.
