CHAPTER 22
Courting An Agent
* * *
Fenrir Thorsson
The scent of bread and spices fills the air as I push open the door to the ranch house. Despite the distance from Astrid, the siren transport makes it easy to get back and forth. The brownies have been busy in the kitchen during my absence.
Three brownies, no taller than my shin, who’ve appointed themselves my official matchmakers, scurry across the countertop in a flurry of activity. One vigorously kneads dough with his entire body, another chops vegetables with precision that would make a master chef envious, while the third—Thistle, their self-appointed leader with distinctive purple-tinged ears—arranges flowers in a tiny vase with solemn concentration.
Cormac looks up from his cup of coffee at the kitchen table. "That was quick. Did she shoot you this time?"
"No." I grin, the memory of Astrid's flushed cheeks when she caught sight of me warming my blood more effectively than any fire. "She barely glared at me."
"Progress!" Thistle abandons his flower arrangement and scampers to the edge of the counter, bright eyes fixed on me with unnerving intensity. "Did she notice the rolled sleeves? The buttons? We told you females respond positively to forearms and a glimpse of chest hair."
I cross my arms, trying and failing to suppress my amusement. "She noticed."
All three brownies freeze, then erupt into a chorus of triumphant chirping sounds that remind me of excited songbirds. They exchange what appears to be currency. Some sort of small, shiny pebbles passing from one tiny hand to another.
"You were betting on whether she'd appreciate my forearms?"
"Not whether," the dough-covered brownie corrects, his voice high and musical. "How much. Thistle said she would stare twice. Bramble said three times minimum."
"And I," the vegetable-chopper announces proudly, "said she would try very hard not to stare at all, which means she noticed most of all."
Cormac chuckles into his coffee. "And the winner is?"
"Nettle," I admit, nodding to the vegetable-chopper. "She kept her eyes firmly on my face. Mostly."
More pebbles exchange hands as Nettle preens. "The resistant ones always fall hardest," he declares.
Hope warms my chest at his words. I do feel like progress was made in our last encounter.
I move to the refrigerator, helping myself to cold water. The electrical sensation that hums beneath my skin whenever Astrid is near has faded to a distant warmth, a phantom echo of connection. Already I miss it. Miss her.
"She's going to stake out the warehouse," I say, leaning against the counter. "Alone. For three days."
Cormac's expression sharpens. "Hellhounds and alone? Not a good combination."
"Precisely why I plan to join her." I drain the glass in one long swallow. "Though I doubt she'll welcome the company at first."
"Of course she won't," Thistle says, returning to his flowers. "Warriors rarely admit what they want immediately. It makes them feel vulnerable."
I nod, agreeing with his statement. "And what does she want?" I ask, genuinely curious about the brownie's perspective.
"You," all three answer in unison, as if I've asked the most obvious question in existence.
The simple answer surprises me. The certainty in their tiny voices feeds something within me that wants to believe our connection is as inevitable as the tides. The corners of my mouth lift in a smile I don't attempt to hide.
"Eventually," Bramble adds, still kneading dough with his entire body. "After she fights it very hard first."
"Speaking of fighting," Cormac interrupts, reaching into his jacket. "You're due for this." He places a flask of ambrosia on the table, the honey-gold liquid catching the late morning light. "You've gone nearly twelve hours without it."
I reach for the flask automatically, then pause. The familiar burning need, the restless clawing of my wolf beneath my skin… both sensations are noticeably muted. My wolf lies quiet, content in a way I haven't experienced in hundreds of years.
"I don't need it," I say, the realization dawning with startling clarity. "Not right now."
