Page 225 of A Vicious Love

“Where are you going?”

“The morning hunt.”

I stared at him.

“The hunt,” I repeated.

“Yes.”

“With my father?”

“And your other male relatives.”

“In the forest?”

“That is where people keep hunts, unless Bellemeres have developed an indoor version to make tradition more unbearable.”

I pushed the blanket down and sat straighter. “Those are not hunting guns.”

His expression filled with approval in a way that made my pulse stumble.

“Good girl.”

The praise slid through me before I could stop it. My face warmed again, but this time it was different from embarrassment.

“I mean it,” I said quickly. “Those are handguns. That knife is not for pheasants.”

“No bird has ever been worth this much preparation.”

“Then why are you taking them?”

“Because I wear guns.”

“To a retreat?”

“To breakfast. To meetings. To casinos. To charity events with terrible floral choices. To car rides. To every place where men with grudges and poor impulse control might decide my death would improve their quarter.”

“That cannot be necessary.”

“It became necessary when I was seventeen.” Jamison adjusted the holster, then reached for the second weapon. “I have worn guns every day since my parents were murdered. I take them off for bed. That is the concession.”

His voice had been casual, almost bored, while his hands moved with perfect habit.

I looked at him across the dawn-lit room and remembered what Crow history felt like whenever anyone spoke it aloud. Murdered parents. A city that turned boys into weapons and then applauded the damage. Seventeen.

Armed every day since. Only unarmed in bed.

In bed beside me.

A strange, fragile feeling opened in my chest.

“You weren’t armed last night,” I said softly.

His eyes flicked to mine.

“No.”

“You slept beside me.”