She’d already lost count of how many times she’d caught her mom staring at her star since arriving last night.
A cluster of gorgeous females—woodland nymphs, from their cedar-and-moss scents—meandered past, champagne in hand, and Bryce lowered her voice. “What do you want me to say? That I’ll move back home to Nidaros and pretend to be normal?”
“What’s so bad about normal?” Her mother’s beautiful face blazed with an inner fire that never banked—never, ever died out. “I think Hunt would like living there.”
“Hunt still works for the 33rd, Mom,” Bryce said. “He’s second in command, for fuck’s sake. And while he might appease you by saying he’d love to live in Nidaros, don’t think for one minute he means it.”
“Way to throw him under the bus,” Randall said while keeping his attention on a nearby information placard.
Before Bryce could answer, Ember said, “Don’t think I haven’t noticed things between you two are weird.”
Trust her mom to bring up two topics she didn’t want to talk about in the space of five minutes. “In what way?”
“You’re together but not together,” Ember said bluntly. “What’s that about?”
“It’s none of your business.” It really wasn’t. But as if he’d heard her, the phone in her clutch buzzed. She yanked it out and peered at the screen.
Hunt had written, I can only hope to have abs like those one day.
Bryce couldn’t help her half smile as she peered back at the muscular Fae male on the frieze before answering. I think you might have a few on him, actually …
“Don’t ignore me, Bryce Adelaide Quinlan.”
Her phone buzzed again, but she didn’t read Hunt’s reply as she said to her mother, “Can you please drop it? And don’t bring it up when Hunt gets here.”
Ember’s mouth popped open, but Randall said, “Agreed. No job or romance interrogations when Hunt arrives.”
Her mother frowned doubtfully, but Bryce said, “Mom, just … stop, okay? I don’t mind my job, and the thing between me and Hunt is what he and I agreed on. I’m doing fine. Let’s leave it at that.”
It was a lie. Sort of.
She actually liked her job—a lot. The private wing of the Fae Archives housed a trove of ancient artifacts that had been sorely neglected for centuries—now in need of researching and cataloging so they could be sent on a traveling exhibit next spring.
She set her own hours, answering only to the head of research, an owl shifter—one of the rare non-Fae staff—who only worked from dusk to dawn, so they barely overlapped. The worst part of her day was entering the sprawling complex through the main buildings, where the sentries all gawked at her. Some even bowed. And then she had to walk through the atrium, where the librarians and patrons tended to stare, too.
Everyone these days stared—she really fucking hated it. But Bryce didn’t want to tell her mom any of that.
Ember said, “Fine. You know I just worry.”
Something in Bryce’s chest softened. “I know, Mom. And I know …” She struggled for the words. “It really helps to know that I can move back home if I want to. But not right now.”
“Fair enough,” Randall chimed in, giving Ember a pointed glance before looping his arm around her waist and steering her toward another frieze across the theater lobby.
Bryce used their distraction to take out her phone, and found that Hunt had written two messages:
Want to count my abs when we get home from the ballet?
Her stomach tightened, and she’d never been more grateful that her parents possessed a human sense of smell as her toes curled in her heels.
Hunt had added, I’ll be there in five, by the way. Isaiah held me up with a new case.
She sent a thumbs-up, then replied: Pleaaaaaase get here ASAP. I just got a major grilling about my job. And you.
Hunt wrote back immediately, and Bryce read as she slowly trailed her parents to where they observed the frieze: What about me?
“Bryce,” her mom called, pointing to the frieze before her. “Check out this one. It’s JJ.”
Bryce looked up from her phone and grinned. “Badass warrior Jelly Jubilee.” There, hanging on the wall, was a rendering of a pegasus—though not a unicorn-pegasus, like Bryce’s childhood toy—charging into battle. An armored figure, helmet obscuring any telltale features, rode atop the beast, sword upraised. Bryce snapped a photo and sent it to Hunt.