Page 26

Telling Vae and Dax, or anyone else, what’s happening is a no-go. I refuse to pull an innocent girl into the cross-hairs just because my instincts went off-script. If they think she’s anything more than a random piece on the board—especially Dax—then I’m essentially throwing her to the wolves. He’ll start asking questions I don’t have the answers to, and I’m not prepared to put any of us in that situation yet.

Truth is, I kind of want to keep her to myself a little longer, because after what happened tonight, she feels like mine.

Mine to watch over. Mine to protect. Mine to figure out.

Vae and I fall in step, and I jog up the stone stairs like I can outrun the weight of my decision. I can feel his stare boring into the side of my head, and I grunt in annoyance. “What?”

He just smiles that cocky fucking grin and rolls his shoulders.

“Nothing. I was just thinking that for a guy with little to no emotions, you pulled up here like you were late to a hate-fuck.”

“I wouldn’t drive the Denali to a hate-fuck.” I reply flatly, playing along. “I like that car too much. It’s got lots of room. And armor.”

I pull open the huge oak doors, dropping my bag in the entryway. Reaching for my gun, I eject the magazine and clear the chamber before handing it off to a waiting trainee on cleaning duty.

“So does a coffin,” Vae points out dryly, leaning against the wall.

“That is such a bullshit stereotype!” Silas’s voice rings through the entryway as he saunters out of the kitchen with a sandwich in one hand and a beer in the other.

The side door to the garage slams shut on the opposite side of the entryway. A second set of footsteps rounds the corner.

Ford appears, already grumbling. “Fates, not this coffin crap again. Which of you jackasses started it this time?”

He’s probably been working on restoring his ‘53 Chevy if I had to guess. He wipes his hands on a grease-covered rag and eyes us like we’re troublesome teenagers who provoked his child on purpose.

I shoot Vae a feral smirk and throw him under the bus with exactly zero hesitation. “Vae did,” I shrug, shouldering past Silas toward the grand staircase that’s the centerpiece of the stronghold entryway.

I jog up the stairs with Ford by my side. Vae and Silas follow behind us, and I assume we’re all heading to the War Room for a debrief.

Our footfalls echo down the long hall, and Silas, never one to miss a chance to hear himself speak, takes advantage of the moment to jump on his soapbox.

“It just makes no logical sense. I mean, do I look like a discount prop from Spirit Halloween?” He scoffs, taking a huge bite of his sandwich. Somehow, he’s managed to gesture wildly with both hands and not lose a single bit of filling.

Impressive.

We round the corner, and I push through the door to the War Room, the other three shuffling in behind me.

“We don’t even die during the day,” he mumbles around a mouth full of food. “Where did humans come up with that shit, anyway? I rest. Like a normal person. With pillows.”

“And weighted blankets,” Vaelenor agrees seriously, nodding like Silas is finally putting into words everything Vae’s been thinking for years.

Spoiler: He hasn’t.

“Yes! Thank you!” Silas throws up his hands and drops into a chair, slapping both his beer and sandwich—sans plate—onto the old oak table that dominates the room.

As I take a seat across from him, Daxen lets out an aggrieved sigh from across the table. I follow his gaze and realize he’s looking at Silas’s sandwich with horror etched across his face.

A large dollop of mayonnaise slides down the side of the bread slowly and falls onto the table with a plop.

Dax’s jaw ticks and his right eye twitches.

I raise a hand to cover my smirk.

“You have three weighted blankets, seven pillows, a voice-activated fan, and a machine that plays five kinds of thunderstorms.” Ford points out, settling down and lining up his cigarette case and lighter in a neat row in front of him. “You once hollered across the hall because you didn’t want to get up and shut your own blackout curtains.”

Silas sputters in outrage. “I was already in bed. I couldn’t get out and then get back in! Plus, I already knew you were awake. It’s called efficiency.”

“It’s called being a little bitch,” Daxen mutters, eyes trained on his laptop.