Beside me, Fen makes a sound that might be a suppressed laugh, low and warm and too close to my ear.
I press the button again to mute before speaking to Fen. "Something funny?" I ask, keeping my binoculars trained on my rookies, though I'm hyper-aware of every inch of him beside me, the heat of him like a brand against my side.
"Your agents." He settles more comfortably beside me, his shoulder brushing mine in a contact that sends electricity arcing between us. "They're like children chasing shadows."
"They're doing their job," I say defensively, though privately I agree. "Not everyone can see... whatever these things are." The admission slips out before I can catch it.
"Hellhounds," he repeats, his voice dropping to a rich timbre that vibrates in my chest like bass notes. "And no, they can't catch them. No one can. Hellhounds pursue their prey until they collect the souls they're hunting. It's inevitable. Like death. Like fate." His gaze lingers on my face as he says the last word, heavy with unspoken meaning.
Below us, Mendez now tries to corner one of the creatures, only to have it disappear through a solid wall as if the concrete were nothing but mist. Her frustrated exclamation carries clearly in the morning air, a string of curses that would make a sailor blush.
"Why are you really here?" I ask, lowering my binoculars to face him directly. "I assume it's not just to criticize my team's hellhound-hunting technique."
His smile is slow and dangerous. The kind that makes something warm uncurl in my stomach, a feeling I've almost forgotten existed after years of keeping everyone at arm's length. "Maybe I just wanted to see you."
"Right." I roll my eyes again, hoping the gesture hides the ridiculous flutter in my chest. "You tracked me to an abandoned warehouse complex at six in the morning because you missed me."
"I did miss you," he says with disarming sincerity, not a hint of mockery in his tone. Those eyes of his hold mine with an intensity that makes my mouth go dry. "It was too late last night to see you after you got home."
The electrical sensation beneath my skin intensifies, humming along my nerves like a current. Like recognition. Like belonging. But something else clicks in my mind—a fleeting shadow I'd noticed outside my apartment window last night, a prickle at the back of my neck that I'd dismissed as paranoia. "You were watching my apartment," I say.
He doesn't deny it, his gaze steady and unapologetic. "I wanted to make sure you got home safely."
"You followed me home from Louisiana? How? We were on a jet."
"Yes," His golden eyes hold mine, not blinking. "I have my ways."
"You can't just follow me everywhere." The protest sounds weak even to my own ears.
"Why not?" His head tilts slightly, exposing the strong column of his throat, the pulse visible there beating steadily, hypnotically.
"Because—" I begin, then stop, then start again, frustration making my words stumble. "Because we're not... this isn't..."
"Isn't what?" He leans closer, his breath warm against my cheek. "Destiny? Attraction? Two souls recognizing each other across impossible divides?"
I refuse to back away, though every instinct screams that he's too close, too dangerous, too tempting. "It's nothing. We're nothing. You're a?—"
"A what?" His voice drops lower, a whisper meant only for me. "A wolf? A monster? The one who dreams of you when sleep finally claims me?"
The confession catches me off guard, sending heat rushing to my face. I struggle to find a response that doesn't reveal too much about the dreams that have haunted my own sleep since Missouri.
Below us, Sutter shouts again as another hellhound appears briefly before vanishing into mist. The perfect distraction.
"Speaking of my agents," I say, deliberately changing the subject, "if these really are... hellhounds... why can't they catch them?"
Fen allows the pivot, though his knowing smile suggests he's aware of my tactical retreat. "Because hellhounds aren't physical creatures in the way you understand. They exist partially in this realm and partially in another. They can be seen by some but not touched unless they allow it, not contained, not killed. They will not leave until their purpose is fulfilled."
"Which is?"
"Collecting souls marked for judgment." He nods toward the complex below, his expression growing serious. "Something very evil is happening in this place, Astrid. The kind of evil that stains souls beyond redemption."
A chill runs down my spine. "What do you mean, evil?"
"I mean the hellhounds aren't the real threat." His expression grows serious, the playfulness vanishing like morning mist under harsh sun. "They're symptoms of something much worse."
I study his expression, searching for any sign that he's exaggerating or manipulating me. My first instinct is skepticism, but something in his tone, the grave certainty in those golden eyes, gives me pause.
I'm gambling by trusting him, but my instincts, the same ones that have kept me alive all these years, are telling me he's right about this. And if I'm wrong? I'll deal with the consequences. But if he's right and I ignore him, people will die.
