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“Completely.”
Ethan studied him - really looked, cataloging details the way Rook had seen Julian examine Cillian. Taking in the leather jacket, the careful posture, the edges where Rook’s human disguise didn’t quite fit right.
“You’re not normal,” Ethan said slowly.
“No.”
“You’re dangerous.”
“Yes.”
“But not to me.”
“Never to you.”
Another long pause. Then Ethan pulled out his phone again and held it out. “Contact information. So you can check the show schedule. The Tempest runs Thursday through Saturday, 8 p.m. curtain, last drinks served at intermission.”
Rook stared at the phone as if it might bite him. “You’re giving me your number?”
“I’m giving you the theater’s booking information so you can buy tickets like a normal patron instead of lurking outside the employee entrance like Brad.” Ethan’s expression remained carefully neutral. “If you happen to message that number with questions about showtimes or concessions, I might respond. In a professional capacity.”
“Professional capacity. Right.” Rook fumbled his own phone out and added the contact. “I’m Rook, by the way.”
“I gathered. From the jacket. You seem to collect shiny things.” Ethan gestured at the truly inadvisable number of buckles. “Ethan Park. Theater bartender, apparently damsel-in-distress according to strangers, actually perfectly capable of handling my own problems.”
“Noted. Filed. Will never rescue you again without explicit permission.”
“Good.” Ethan headed toward the street, then paused and looked back. “The bar opens at seven thirty. If you’re coming on Thursday, arrive early. I can explain the plot before curtain, so you don’t embarrass yourself.”
Then he walked away, leaving Rook standing in the theater district with a phone number and the dawning realization that maybe - possibly - he’d just experienced his own alley moment.
Just without the alley.
Or the active murder.
His phone buzzed.
Cillian: Are you coming to dinner?
Rook: Yes. Also, I think I just met someone.
Cillian: In an alley?
Rook: Outside a theater. He yelled at me for trying to help him.
Cillian: ...I don’t understand.
Rook: Neither do I. It was perfect.
Rook pocketed his phone and headed toward Shadow House, grinning like an idiot.
Maybe he’d been doing it wrong this whole time. Maybe his mate wasn’t going to stumble into an alley during active body disposal. Maybe his mate was going to yell at him outside a theater for having terrible intervention tactics while wearing a bow tie and explaining social dynamics like Rook was the disaster.
He could work with that.
Chapter Two
“You’re fine.” No, Ethan wasn’t talking to another person. He’d said the words out loud to his apartment’s empty main room, testing the statement’s accuracy. It’s what he did. His hands remained steady as he locked the deadbolt. His pulse had returned to baseline during the walk home. The residual adrenaline from Brad’s proximity had already metabolized. In other words, he was fine.
