Page 20 of Let Slip the Dogs of War

He does not snap the way some of the others in his pack would. Curiosity shimmers in his dark eyes.

“It—I—I wanted to wait.”

“You wanted to wait.”

“Yes.”

He presses his lips together and looks at Grant again. Grant’s head lolls back against the tree, eyes closed, breaths deep. At least if he sleeps, he should get over the worst of it quickly.

“When was the right time going to be?”

I do my best to gather myself because the hurt in his voice—He is trying to disguise it, but I hear it despite that.

“I do not know.”

His lips tremble. His eyes dart away too quickly, and I find myself speaking again, desperate to make him understand.

“You were only twenty when I crossed the veil,” I say. “I did not—I wanted to get to know you first. I did not want to tell you about it before we were on an equal footing. That would not be fair to you.”

It would not have been. He was so young. And beautiful, and I remember the way my breath caught at the sight of him, my entire body frozen in understanding that this human, this was the man I belonged to. My magic reached for him then, greedy as it was, and it took everything in me to drag it back as I watched him laugh with Ophelia, cheeks flushed and eyes bright.

I wanted to hear that laugh. I wanted to taste it.

I still want those things.

“You wanted to get to know me?”

“Yes.”

Dante nods. “Okay. Fine. You own a café. What’s my favourite type of coffee?”

The question hangs between us, and my brain goes blank. No. It is simply… I do not know. Every time Dante comes in, he orders something different. He has ordered more lattes than cappuccinos, I am certain, but different flavours, different milks, different—

“I…” I trail off, swallowing the words. I cannot lie. I refuse to tell him that I do not know.

“Yeah, okay.” Dante lets out a world-weary sigh. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. You should rest for a bit, too. I’ll keep an eye out for any fae.”

I do not speak, but I do not sit either. Dante does not argue with me. He watches the shadows, alert almost to a fault, and my insides claw at me because there is nothing I can do to help him.

Belatedly, I realise that I am still wearing my glamour. It flickers for a moment, as though by drawing my own attention to it is a weakness, but I do not allow it to fall. I do not need to demand his eyes on me, no matter how much I want that.

The suns are going down when Grant finally stirs. He lets out a quiet groan, pressing his hands to his face. “What the… fuck? Why does my head hurt?”

Dante allows himself one final look around before he crouches by Grant’s side. “Too much magic,” he says quietly. “How are you feeling?”

Grant drops his hands and blinks up at him. His skin is ashen, eyes red. “Like I’m hungover. This isn’t fair.”

The last word is said with a bit of a whine, and to my surprise, Dante chuckles. He holds out a hand to help Grant up. “It’s not,” he says, “but it shouldn’t happen again. Right?”

Oh, he is speaking to me. “Correct,” I say. “Your own magic should account for the difference now.”

Grant grimaces, brushing off the back of his trousers. “What about you?” he asks Dante. “You’re okay?”

My stomach dips. I did not think to ask that. Why would I? Dante does not have the same amount or type of magic that Grant does.

“Yeah, fine,” Dante replies. He stays by Grant’s side, watching, until Grant looks at me.

“Well then,” he says. “Let’s get going.”