“Don’t play stupid. Come on—last night was weird. Right now is fucking weird.”
Bryce leaned against the wall. “Sorry. Sorry.” It was all she could think to say.
Hunt asked carefully, “When were you going to tell me about Cormac dropping by the archives? What the fuck did he say?”
“That you and I are losers and he thinks I’m an immature brat.”
“Did he touch you?” Lightning skittered along Hunt’s wings. The elevator lights guttered.
The elevator reached the ground floor before she could answer, and they fell silent as they passed Marrin, the doorman. The ursine shifter waved goodbye.
Only when they’d stepped onto the sizzling sidewalk did Bryce say, “No. Cormac’s just a creep. Seems like this city is full of them these days.” She gestured to the sky above, the angels soaring toward the sprawling complex of the Comitium in the CBD. The decorations in Celestina’s honor seemed to have multiplied overnight. “No fights today, okay?”
“I’ll try.”
They reached the corner where Bryce would go right, Hunt to the left. “I mean it, Hunt. No more fights. We need to keep a low profile.” Especially now. They were too close to Ophion for comfort.
“Fine. Only if you call me the moment Prince Asshole contacts you again.”
“I will. Let me know if Tharion gets in touch. Or if you pick up anything about …” She glanced at the cameras mounted on the ornately decorated streetlamps and buildings. She couldn’t say Emile’s name here.
Hunt stiffened, wings tucking in. “We need to talk about that. I, ah …” Shadows darkened his eyes, and her heart strained, knowing what memories caused them. But here it was. The discussion she’d been waiting for. “I know you want to help, and I commend you for it, Bryce. But I think we really need to weigh everything before we jump in.”
She couldn’t resist the impulse to squeeze his hand. “Okay.” His calluses brushed against her skin. “Good point.”
“Tharion threw me off last night,” he went on. “It dragged up a lot of old shit for me—and worries for you. But if you want to move forward with this … let’s talk it through first.”
“Okay,” she said again. “But I’m still going to meet with Fury right now.” She had too many questions not to meet with her.
“Sure,” he said, though worry shone in his gaze. “Keep me updated.” He slid his hand from hers. “And don’t think we’re done talking about this weirdness between us.”
By the time Bryce had opened her mouth to answer, Hunt had already launched skyward.
Bryce slid onto a stool at the eight-seat counter that made up Tempest in a Teapot, her favorite tea bar in the city.
Nestled on Ink Street in the heart of the Old Square, most of the narrow, graffiti-painted alley was quiet, most of the shops shut. Only the tea bar and the tiny bakery operating out of a window between two tattoo parlors were open. Come lunch, the many eateries would roll up their doors and set out the little tables and benches that crowded either side of the street. Once the lunch crowd returned to their offices, the street would quiet again—until the after-work rush of people eager for a beer, a specialty cocktail, or more food. And sundown brought in a whole new crowd: drunk assholes.
“Morning, B,” Juniper said, her curly hair pulled back into an elegant bun, brown skin glowing in the morning light. She stood alongside Fury, who’d perched herself on a barstool and was scrolling through her phone. “Just wanted to say hi before practice.”
Bryce kissed her friend on her silken cheek. “Hi. You’re gorgeous. I hate you.”
Juniper laughed. “You should see me when I’m dripping with sweat in an hour.”
“You’ll still be gorgeous,” Bryce said, and Fury nodded without taking her focus from her phone. “Did you guys order?”
“Yeah.” Fury put away her phone. “So go ahead.”
Juniper said, “Mine’s to go, though.” She tapped her navy dance bag, which was partially unzipped, the soft pink of her leotard peeking out. For a moment, Bryce allowed herself to look at her friend—really look at the beauty that was Juniper. Graceful and tall and thin, certainly not the wrong body type.
What would it have been like to be heading into morning practice? To have a dance bag full of gear and not a purse full of random crap on her shoulder? Heels braced on the rail beneath the bar, Bryce couldn’t stop her feet from twitching, arching—as if testing the strength and pliancy of pointe shoes.