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His answer is something complicated about circuit boards and rocket ships. The longer we talk, the more he relaxes. His leg brushes against mine and stays there. Every so often, his eyes drift to my mouth when I laugh, then flick away again like he’s catching himself.
“My turn,” I say, tilting my head. “If you could have any talent in the world that you don’t already have, what would it be?”
Hunter goes quiet for a moment, staring out at the empty road. “I’d want to be able to turn off my brain. The thoughts. The urges. Just for a little while. Be normal.”
The air between us shifts, but it doesn’t feel heavy. It feels honest.
I want to reach over and gently squeeze his hand, but I respect his boundaries. “I like you exactly how you are, Hunter. Even the complicated parts.”
We go back and forth: favorite foods and music until the sun is all the way down and the moon is creeping above the trees. He checks his phone compulsively, holding it up trying to get a signal. Sliding it back in his pocket, he says, “Your turn.”
I think for a second. “What’s something you’ve never told anyone?”
For a minute I think he’s not going to answer, but quietly he admits, “Sometimes, when I watch you and Damon together, I get jealous. Not because I don’t want you to have him. But because I want to be able to give you what he does.”
My heart squeezes and I let my shoulder lean against his. “You give me different things. Important things. I need both of you.”
We sit like that for a while, the sun dipping lower, painting the sky in soft oranges and pinks. The tension hasn’t disappeared completely, but it feels different now.
Eventually, the distant sound of another engine breaks the quiet. Hunter lifts his head, a small smile tugging at his lips.
“DK’s here.”
I don’t move right away, enjoying the last few seconds of just the two of us on the tailgate. Hunter doesn’t pull away either.
Maybe he’s right: Flat tires aren’t the worst thing in the world.
17
Arianette
We’re back in West End, the neon lights of Royal Ink shining on the sidewalk, like a beacon to our destination. It’s just Damon and me this time. Hunter stayed behind at the House of Night, muttering something about research and “a project” he needed to get started on. I didn’t push him.
I don’t recognize the member of DKS who meets us at the door, but he points toward an elevator. Jace and Slade followed us, and at Damon’s nod, stayed downstairs. They’re the last thing I see before the elevator doors shut, posted up like silent shadows—two men Damon trusts with his life, and now mine.
Patrick, Jude, Carson, Denny… they’ve all stepped up in the last few days, doing whatever it takes to keep the House of Night from crumbling under the weight of everything that’s happened. It’s comforting to know we’re not completely alone in this fight, but as we exit the elevator and enter the Dukes’ apartment, I feel the shift. This moment is personal. This is about me.
Lavinia is waiting for us, her pale blue hair twisted up into a messy bun that looks effortlessly cool. She’s dressed casually in cut-off denim shorts and a baggy gray T-shirt with a faded Fury logo across the front. But none of that really registers. My eyes drop immediately to the handsome white cat with black markings cradled in her arms.
“Oh my gosh, you have a cat?” I ask, my voice softening instantly.
Lavinia grins, lifting the cat higher so I can get a better look. She presses a quick kiss to the top of his head. “Yep. This is the Archduke—or Archie for short.”
“He’s an asshole,” Sy warns, strolling out from a side room. He’s in a simple black T-shirt that stretches tight across his broad chest and shoulders, the fabric straining against the hard lines of muscle underneath, paired with worn jeans. His gaze flicks to the cat with clear skepticism. “Don’t let him trick you. He’s got an evil streak.”
“I don’t believe it,” I say, reaching out to stroke the soft, silky fur between Archie’s ears. The cat leans into my touch, purring loudly. “You’re the sweetest thing, aren’t you?” I glance back at Damon, who’s standing just behind me, his body rigid and tense like he’s bracing for an attack. “Isn’t he?”
“Absolutely adorable,” Damon deadpans, his voice thick with sarcasm.
I roll my eyes and turn back to Lavinia. “Ignore him. He literally takes care of an entire feral cat colony down by the water. He just doesn’t want anyone thinking he’s a softie.”
“I’m not a softie,” Damon argues, crossing his arms. “I’m just doing my civic duty to limit the proliferation of non-neutered and unspayed pets in the community.”
Before I can call him on his bullshit, Archie wiggles free from Lavinia’s hold with a dramatic twist and darts off toward the back of the apartment. A second later, a sharp shout echoes down the hall.
“Son of a bitch!”
Remy steps out, shirtless, his long, lean torso covered in intricate ink that shifts and ripples with every movement. The tattoos crawl over his ribs and down his arms, telling stories I’m not sure I want to know. He pauses when he sees us, his eyes flicking over me and Damon with a guarded expression before settling on Lavinia.
