My gaze slides to him. He’s sat back in his seat, eyes closed, messy hair falling forward enough that I have to fight the urge to gently push it back. Without that angry glare directed my way, it’s easier to see the fatigue setting in. The dark shadows forming under his eyes, the rigid way he’s holding himself.
It’s a stark reminder that he’s not like us. He’s not a shifter, and Corey’s blood aside, he was at death’s door less than a fucking week ago. He needs to rest and recuperate, and there’s zero chance of doing that around here. Not now.
And not with me around to remind him of the other bombshell I dropped on him earlier. Or the awesome, but ill-advised orgasm that followed.
It’s no surprise he looks exhausted.
An idea starts to form at the back of my mind. One I hate with every bone in my body, but even my wolf has to reluctantly acknowledge it might be for the best. I don’t get a chance to voice it before the door opens and Jet walks in, thankfully a lot calmer than when he left. He looks almost...softas he leads Nico into the room.
Jet sits back in the chair nearest Mal, but Nico hesitates.
I look around the room and try and see it through his eyes. Morgan aside, the rest of us are typical shifters: tall, built, intimidating.
Nico is none of those things.
Born human, he’s five foot ten, at most, and slim. No wonder he’s not keen to be in here with the door shut.
“I’m sorry we have to do this.” I keep my voice soft, non-threatening. “I wouldn’t drag you in here if there was any other choice.”
“I understand,” he says as he meets my gaze. There’s a strength in those eyes, a resolve. “You got me out of that hellhole. This is the least I can do.”
Fuck no.
“You don’t owe us anything,” I say quick but firm, because I need him to know that. “We got you out because you don’t deserve to be in there. No one does. But if we’re going to keep doing what we do, we need to know everything you can tell us about the guy you recognised this afternoon.”
“Okay.” Nico takes a deep breath and seems to steel himself, because he glances around the room before taking the spare seat next to Jet. This puts him opposite Flint, who flashes him a welcoming smile and makes him blush. I ignore the death glare Jet shoots Flint, because we don’t have time for any of their drama.
“Can you describe the hunter you recognised?” Callum asks, flicking to a clean page to take notes.
Nico closes his eyes. “It was the one with black hair and the blade tattoo on the side of his neck.”
Fuck, I don’t remember a tattoo. I look to Callum, eyebrows raised in question.
Callum scowls. “Lee Mosely. The other two were blond with no visible tattoos.”
“Yeah,” Nico grimaces. “I think I remember one of the others saying that name.”
“Where did you see him?” I ask. “The ring we took you from?”
“No. The one before. I don’t know where we were because they never tell us the locations. They just trot us out to perform when we get there.”
Jet fidgets in his seat, hands curling into fists, then flexing over and over while Nico speaks. Most of us here have experience about whatperformingmeans. It’s not easy to listento Nico’s story, even though he keeps to the basic facts. We can all read between the fucking lines.
What he went through was horrific.
Brutal and terrifying.
There’s more than one soft growl echoing around the room, the tension thickening with each quiet word. But it’s Jet I keep my eye on. It was bad enough when we were talking about the fight rings, but throw hunters into the mix?
They killed his entire family for nothing more than the notoriety of killing feline shifters. They’re a rarity among us, and for some hunter pieces of shit, that means they’re a target. Doesn’t fucking matter that the hunter council dealt with them, made them an example when the new rules were established.
For Jet, hunters are the scum of the motherfucking earth, and that will never change.
His hands curl into tight fists on top of the table.
Steady.
But I’d bet my fucking bike that his claws are out, digging into the meat of his palms, the pain the only thing grounding him.
