The drive home passes in a blur of streetlights and racing thoughts. That strange electrical sensation has returned, humming beneath my skin like a live wire. It's been growing stronger all day, but I attributed it to stress and lack of sleep. Now I wonder if it's something else entirely. A warning system, perhaps. Or something worse.
The parking garage beneath my apartment building is nearly full at this hour. Most of my neighbors are already home for the night, settled into their normal lives with their normal problems. Lives that don't involve hunting magickal beings while hiding magickal abilities of their own. Lives without the constant fear of discovery and death.
The elevator ride to my floor feels endless. All I want is a hot shower, a stiff drink, and enough sleep to quiet the voice in my head that keeps asking dangerous questions about loyalty and identity and the golden-eyed wolf who knows my name.
I hear it before I even reach my door—movement inside my apartment. Subtle sounds that wouldn't alert a normal human but ring like alarm bells to my enhanced senses. I draw my sidearm, tension coiling through my muscles as I press my ear against the door. More movement. The clink of dish ware.
Chimera? They've been hunting GUIDE agents. Did our involvement on the case put me on their hit list? But a Chimera wouldn't be using my dishes. Someone who knows what I am? GUIDE's internal affairs could have finally figured out I'm not human. This could be an execution team waiting to take me down.
But the dishes… If they wanted me dead, they'd have set an ambush. This is something else.
My mother, maybe? But I didn't call her. And she doesn't have keys to my apartment.
I turn my key in the lock as quietly as possible, then push the door open with my shoulder, weapon raised and ready. The familiar scent of my apartment hits me first, but... different. Cleaner. The usual mix of coffee and gun oil and my own scent is overlaid with something fresh, like citrus and herbs.
"Mom?" I call out cautiously, moving through the small entryway. "Is that you?"
The living room stops me in my tracks. Everything is... organized. The stack of case files I left scattered across the coffee table is neatly arranged in a perfect pile. The dirty laundry I'd tossed over the arm of the couch is gone. The throw pillows are actually arranged instead of crumpled wherever I last left them. Even the plants on the windowsill, usually half-dead from neglect, look freshly watered.
"What the hell?" I whisper, moving further into the apartment.
After today's humiliation with Hayes, finding an intruder in the one place I can be myself sends white-hot rage coursing through me. Someone's about to have a very bad night.
That's when I hear it—humming. Deep, masculine humming coming from my kitchen. Along with the unmistakable smell of food cooking. Good food.
I round the corner with my weapon raised.
A man stands at my stove with his back to me, stirring something in a pot that smells impossibly good. But it's not just any man. Even from behind, I recognize the broad shoulders, the powerful build, the long blonde hair pulled back in a loose knot at the nape of his neck.
And he's shirtless. Gloriously, distractingly shirtless.
His back is a topographic map of muscle. Broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, every inch defined as if carved from marble. Intricate tattoos cover much of his skin. Norse symbols, wolves, a stylized world tree that spans his shoulder blades. He wears only a pair of grey sweatpants that hang dangerously low on his hips, revealing twin dimples at the base of his spine.
For one absurd moment, my brain short-circuits completely. I just stand there, weapon half-lowered, staring at possibly the most physically perfect male specimen I've ever seen in my life.
Then he turns, and those golden brown eyes meet mine.
The wolf shifter. In my kitchen. Cooking.
"What the FUCK!" I raise my gun again, aiming directly at his chest. "Don't move!"
He holds up his hands, wooden spoon still clutched in one. His expression remains calm, almost amused, as he regards me over the barrel of my weapon.
"I'm not here to hurt you," he says, his voice deep and steady. "I just want to talk."
"Talk?" I bark out a laugh that sounds slightly unhinged even to my own ears. "You break into my apartment, and you want to talk? How did you even find me? How did you get in?"
"I didn't break in," he says, maintaining that frustrating calm even with my gun aimed at his chest. "I was allowed inside."
"That's impossible," I reply, tightening my grip on the weapon.
He shrugs those impressive shoulders, as if locks opening of their own accord is the most normal explanation in the world. "Brownies are very resourceful," he explains, golden eyes meeting mine without a hint of deception.
"Brownies," I repeat flatly, disbelief evident in my voice. "Multiple? One of them was the brownie I was sent to capture today?" I must be losing my mind. He's in my apartment casually mentioning the magickal creature I failed to capture as if they're mutual friends who helped him cook dinner.
He nods, completely serious. "They're also the ones who cleaned your apartment. And they shopped for the ingredients for me for dinner." He gestures toward the pot he's been stirring. "Though I did most of the cooking..."
I take a step forward, weapon still trained on him. "Put the spoon down and step away from the stove."
