“That was—” Marcus started.
“Don’t say inevitable.”
“I was absolutely going to say inevitable.”
She shoved his shoulder. He caught her hand and kissed her knuckles.
Afterward, she propped herself up to look at him. In the morning light, with his hair mussed and his guard completely down, he looked younger. More human, despite the demon marks that traced across his chest.
“Stop looking at me like that,” he murmured, his eyes still closed.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re trying to memorize me.”
“Maybe I am.” She traced the line of his jaw, rougher now with morning stubble. “Is that a problem?”
“No.” He caught her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm, then to her wrist, then to the inside of her elbow. “It’s the opposite of a problem.”
Azrael appeared in the window, surveyed them with obvious judgment, and vanished with an irritated swish of his tail.
“What happens now?” Hazel asked.
Marcus pulled her closer. “Now? Now I make you breakfast.”
“That’s not what I…”
He kissed her, soft and unhurried. “I know what you meant. But can we have this first? Just this morning, just us, before we have to think about trials and conspiracies and everything else?”
“One hour at a time, if necessary.”
“We’ll figure it out.” He pressed his lips to her temple. “Whatever happens after the trial, we’ll figure it out. I promise.”
“Breakfast,” she agreed. “But you’re putting on pants first.”
“Fair. Same rules apply to you.”
They dressed slowly, stealing kisses between buttons. Hazel pulled on one of his shirts instead of her own, white cotton that smelled like him, that hung past her thighs, and the look he gave her made her consider taking it right back off.
“Focus,” she said, though she was the one who needed the reminder.
“I am focused.” His voice had dropped an octave. “That’s the problem.”
They managed to make it to the kitchenette without getting distracted again, but Marcus burned the eggs because Hazel wrapped her arms around his waist while he was cooking, pressing her cheek between his shoulder blades.
“We’re terrible at this,” she laughed against his back.
“Terrible,” he agreed, smiling as he scraped char into the sink. “Completely unprofessional.”
“Good thing I never hired you.”
They ate breakfast on the bed, plates balanced on knees, trading bites and stories. Marcus told her about his first case—a pixie custody battle that devolved into glitter bombs—and she shared how she’d accidentally turned the mayor’s hair green at fifteen for insulting her grandmother’s protective wards.
They kept touching: hands finding hands, a thumb across a cheekbone, shoulders pressed together. Making sure this was real.
Eventually, the conversation turned to what they’d discovered the night before. The conspiracy. The leak.
“Mrs. Henderson.” Hazel set down her fork. “I still can’t believe it might be her.”
