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But what sort of pet could handle the unpredictable life of a supernatural bounty hunter? A dragon, maybe—a small one, obviously, because apartment rules clearly stated ‘no pets over fifteen pounds’. I grinned at the thought of explaining that to Mrs. Hensen next door.
“Would a dragon even fit in here?” I asked the empty rooms, half expecting an answer. “Or would it try to roast my socks?”
I sighed, running a hand through my hair, feeling the last of the adrenaline drain away, leaving behind a deep, bone-deep weariness. No pet decisions tonight. Just me, my thoughts, and the echoes of what could have been—what might still be, if I dared to play with fire again.
Crawling into bed, I tossed and turned. I kicked off the sheets, a restless sigh escaping me as I sprawled across the bed in my empty apartment. The ceiling fan whirred above, but it might as well have been for show—the heat that wrapped around me had nothing to do with the temperature of the room and everything to do with Riker’s electric touch still buzzing beneath my skin.
“Get a grip, Fury,” I muttered to myself, flipping the pillow to the cooler side for the umpteenth time. It provided temporary relief, but within seconds, the heat was back, wrapping its seductive fingers around me.
I could almost hear Mami’s voice chastising me—‘Tessa, mija, focus on what matters.’ Easy for you, Mami. You weren’t wrestling with the desire to mix business with pleasure, to let flames lick at your resolve until there was nothing left but ash and longing.
The clock on the bedside table ticked away, each second a taunt, a reminder of the sleep that eluded me. I tried counting not sheep, but the supernatural monsters I’d hunted over the years. Vampires? Too sexy—bad idea. Werewolves? Nope, even worse. A sigh morphed into a groan. Why did everything in my life, from pets to pests, revolve around the otherworldly?
“Think unsexy thoughts,” I ordered myself. Taxes. Cold showers. Mrs. Hensen’s disapproving scowl when I brought home a so-called stray who turned out to be a shapeshifter with a penchant for petty theft. But my traitorous mind refused to cooperate, drifting instead to the feel of Riker’s arms, the promise in his eyes.
“Bet a dragon wouldn’t be this difficult,” I grumbled, tossing again. Imagining a mini-dragon curled up at the foot of my bed did bring a smile to my lips—its tiny snoring would be far preferable to this torturous heat.
As dawn crept in, painting the sky with streaks of pink and gold, I lay wide-eyed and wired, the cool light a stark contrast to the fire racing through my veins. Sleep was a cunning fugitive, one I couldn’t seem to catch tonight. With a resigned huff, I sat up, abandoning any pretense of rest.
“Sunrise isn’t so bad,” I said to no one in particular, watching the light dance across the walls of my too-neat apartment. “It’s just... what, the start of another day saving the world from things that go bump in the night?”
I stood, stretching muscles that ached from tension rather than effort. A shower. Yes, that’s what I needed. Maybe the water could extinguish the flame that Riker had unwittingly stoked. Or at least dampen it enough to let me think straight.
But as I padded across the cold floor to the bathroom, I knew it was going to take more than the water of a single shower to douse this kind of fire. It would take willpower, determination… and a whole lot of cold showers.
“Good thing I have an endless supply of those,” I said to my reflection, but the wry smile I wore didn’t quite reach my eyes. They were too busy smoldering, reflecting a blaze that was only just beginning.
CHAPTER 11
The shrill ring of my phone pierced through the fog of sleep. I jolted awake, momentarily disoriented, as the phone danced across my nightstand with persistent vibrations. When did I even crash? The last thing I remembered sitting down on the bed after that shower.
“Okay, okay, I’m up,” I muttered, snatching the phone before it could shimmy off the edge and commit technological suicide. “Tessa Fury, Supernatural Bounty Hunter Extraordinaire,” I answered, voice thick with sleep and sarcasm.
“Ah, Tessa, apologies for the disturbance,” came Cairo’s voice on the other end, crisp as a starched shirt and tinged with urgency. It still amazed me how his British accent managed to sound polite even when he was neck-deep in djinn drama.
“Is this about Zayn?”
Cairo’s silence crackled with tension, a prelude to trouble. I swung my legs over the side of the bed, my mind already racing.
“Zayn’s on the warpath, Tessa. He’s threatening to torch your city’s ‘Old Red’ unless I turn myself in,” Cairo blurted out.
“Old Red” was the local affectionate term for the Dallas County Courthouse, its rust-colored bricks a silent guardian of history—and today, apparently, a target for supernatural pyrotechnics.
“Great, now historic landmarks are on the ifrit’s hit list,” I said, though the humor didn’t quite reach my still sleep-heavy limbs. “Listen to me. Do not go to that courthouse. Don’t even think about it. Zayn’s just blowing smoke to get to you.”
“Blowing smoke” might’ve been too light a term for a djinni with Zayn’s pyroclastic resume, but Cairo needed calm, not more embers for his anxiety.
“Stay hidden, keep your head down. If Zayn wants a show, he’ll get one—but not with you as the star attraction. I’ll handle it.” My words were a mixture of bravado and a fast-forming plan that was still blurry around the edges.
“Handle it?” Cairo’s tone sharpened, a skewer of doubt piercing the phone line. “And how do you propose to?—”
“Trust me. We’ve tangoed with worse than an oversized Bunsen burner with a crown complex,” I confidently assured him, even though my internal danger-meter was spiking into uncharted red zones.
“Be careful, Tessa,” he said, his British accent wrapping around my name like a protective charm. “Zayn isn’t known for his restraint.”
“Neither am I when it comes to bullies and their fire fetishes,” I retorted. “Keep your phone close. And keep Poppy in your thoughts. We’re going to sort this, promise.”
“Thank you,” he whispered before disconnecting.
