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“Rough day for you too?” I ask.

He makes a small sound.

“Yeah.” I scratch behind his ears. “I know the feeling.”

The knock comes twenty minutes later.

“It’s open,” I call, mostly because I don’t have the energy to get up. But also because, for the first time in ages, I’m not worried about a threat standing on the other side.

The door opens.

Footsteps sound.

Nash has changed out of what he was wearing at the estate. Dark shirt, sleeves pushed up, messy hair. There’s still a bruise along his jaw where Ramsey caught him.

The sight of it stirs a rage in me that’s not entirely rational. I have to remind myself the asshole who hurt him is gone—unable to hurt anyone ever again. Especially my mate.

Those words stir something in me that I tamp down before it can show on my face.

Nash looks at me for a second without saying anything. Taking stock, the way he always does. Probably reading my freaking mind. Then his eyes drop to my shoulder.

“How bad?” he asks.

“Three weeks in a sling. Marcus says I’ll feel it every time it rains.”

“That long?”

“Apparently, hex magic leaves a mark.”

His expression deepens into concern. “Does it hurt?”

“Of course not. My pain tolerance is unreasonably high.”

“I know,” he says with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

He takes in the apartment the way he did the first time—not performing interest, just actually curious—and then finds the wine on the coffee table and the two glasses, and something in his expression goes quiet in a way I feel through the bond before I see it on his face.

That’ll take some getting used to, but if I’m honest, I kind of love it. Knowing what he’s feeling without needing to ask. Or waiting for him to tell me. The data-driven, strategic bitch in me loves having all the information.

He sits down on my other side. Echo opens one eye at the new presence, determines Nash is acceptable, and closes it again.

He reaches for both wine glasses. Offers me mine.

We drink.

The city does its thing below us. A siren somewhere on the east side. A car alarm two streets over that cuts off mid-cycle. Normal sounds. The sounds of a city that is still standing.

“How’s your throat?” I ask.

The gashes have all closed over, but the bruising remains—and it looks gnarly.

He touches it briefly. “Fine.”

“Nash.”

“I’ve had worse."

“That's not what I asked.”