Hunt stood before them, wings held at a casual angle as he talked with her friends. He looked up as Bryce entered the living room, and she could have sworn his black eyes lit.
She reined in her joy at the sight as she plopped onto the cushions beside Juniper, cuddling close. She nuzzled June’s shoulder. “Hi, my talented and brilliant and beautiful friend.”
Juniper laughed, squeezing Bryce. “Right back at you.”
Bryce said, “I was talking to Fury.”
Juniper smacked Bryce’s knee, and Fury laughed, observing, “Already acting like a prima donna.”
Bryce sighed dramatically. “I can’t wait to see June throw temper tantrums about the state of her dressing room.”
“Oh, you’re both horrible,” Juniper said, but laughed along with them. “One, I won’t even have a dressing room to myself for years. Two—”
“Here we go,” Fury said, and when June made a noise of objection, she only chuckled and brushed her mouth over the faun’s temple.
The casual, loving bit of intimacy had Bryce daring a glance toward Hunt, who was smiling faintly. Bryce avoided the urge to fidget, to think about how that could so easily be them, cuddling on the couch and kissing. Hunt just said, voice gravelly, “What can I get you, Quinlan?” He inclined his head toward the bar in the rear of the room, barely visible with the crowds mobbing the two bartenders.
“Whiskey, ginger beer, and lime.”
“You got it.” With a mockery of a salute, Hunt stalked off through the crowd.
“How’s the whole no-sex thing going for you, Bryce?” Fury asked wryly, leaning forward to peer at her face.
Bryce slumped against the cushions. “Asshole.”
June’s laugh fizzled through her, and her friend patted her thigh. “Remind me why you two aren’t hooking up?”
Bryce peered over the back of the couch to make sure Hunt still stood at the bar before she said, “Because I am a fucking idiot, and you two jerks know that.”
Juniper and Fury snickered, the latter taking a sip of her vodka soda. “Tell him you’ve changed your mind,” the merc said, resting the glass on her black leather-clad knee. How Fury could wear leather in this heat was beyond Bryce. Shorts, T-shirt, and sandals were all she could endure with the sizzling temperatures, even at night.
“And break our bargain before Winter Solstice?” Bryce hissed. “He’d never let me live it down.”
“Athalar already knows you want to break it,” Fury drawled.
“Oh, he totally knows,” Juniper agreed.
Bryce crossed her arms. “Can we not talk about this?”
“Where would the fun be in that?” Fury asked.
Bryce kicked Fury’s leather boot, wincing as her gold-sandaled foot collided with unforgiving metal. “Steel toes? Really?”
“This is a veritable frat party,” Fury said, smirking. “There might be some asses to kick if someone makes a move on my girlfriend.”
Juniper glowed at the term. Girlfriend.
Bryce didn’t know what the Hel she was to Hunt. Girlfriend seemed ridiculous when talking about Hunt fucking Athalar. As if Hunt would ever do anything as normal and casual as dating.
Juniper poked Bryce in the arm. “I mean it. Remind me why you guys still need to wait for solstice to do the deed.”
Bryce slouched, sinking down a few inches, her feet sending the empty beer cans under the coffee table clattering. “I just …”
That familiar buzz of power and maleness that was Hunt filled the air behind her, and Bryce shut her mouth a moment before a plastic cup of amber liquid garnished with a wedge of lime appeared before her. “Princess,” Hunt crooned, and Bryce’s toes curled—yet again. They seemed to have a habit of doing that around him.
“Do we get to use that term now?” June perked up with delight. “I’ve been dying—”
“Absolutely not.” Bryce swigged from her drink. She gagged. “How much whiskey did you have the bartender put in here, Athalar?” She coughed, as if it’d do anything to ease the burn.
Hunt shrugged. “I thought you liked whiskey.”
Fury snorted, but Bryce got to her feet. Lifted the cup toward Hunt in a silent toast, then lifted it to June. “To the next principal dancer of the CCB.”
Then she knocked back the whole thing and let it burn right down to her soul.
Hunt let himself—just for one fucking second—look at Bryce. Admire the steady, unfaltering tap of her sandaled foot on the worn wood floor to the beat of the music; the long, muscled legs that gleamed in the neon firstlights, her white shorts offsetting her summer tan. No scars remained from the shit that had occurred this spring, aside from that mark on her chest, though the thick scar from years ago still curved along her thigh.