I wave toward the door. "Can you please go be paranoid over there instead?"
"That's my job now." But he's already moving, gun held low at his side.
I slide off the kitchen chair and creep to the corner of the hallway, watching him approach the door.
He checks the peephole first, then opens the door just wide enough, his body angled to block entry. The gun stays behind the doorframe, out of view.
I shift to try and see out. Brown uniform. Delivery guy. Clipboard and a large envelope.
Octavian signs awkwardly with his left hand, takes the envelope, and shuts the door. He inspects it like he's half-convinced it might explode, turning it over twice before he seems satisfied.
When he walks back, he holds it out to me.
"For you."
I take it. Our fingers brush and my brain unhelpfully replays those same fingers gripping my hips less than thirty minutes ago, pulling me back onto him, making me scream his name into my forearm because the gym echoes.
I look down at the envelope very deliberately.
The paper is thick, expensive. Cream-colored with gold foil embossing along the edges.
"It's the Shadowharbor Foundation gala," I say, tearing it open.
You are cordially invited to the Annual Shadowharbor Foundation Gala. Black tie. November 12th. The Fairmont Mandarin Plaza.
One week from now.
"They overnight invitations?" Octavian's tone suggests he already knows the answer and doesn't like it.
"It's one of the biggest events in Boston. Politicians, corporate bigwigs, everyone who's anyone." I flip the card over. "Big donors. Power players." I look up at him. "Definitely someone connected to the Morrígan Order."
"You're not going."
I turn on my heel and head back toward the kitchen. "You'll have to do a lot more than what you did earlier to convince me of that."
"You're really gonna use sex as leverage right now?"
I glance back at him. "I'm just saying. Your persuasion techniques need work."
"My techniques seemed pretty effective when you were?—"
"Octavian."
He follows me into the kitchen, and I can hear the smile in his voice. "What? I'm just saying, you were very convinced?—"
My phone rings.
I snatch it off the counter. Declan.
"What the fuck, Dec?"
"Did Callum call you?" His voice is tight, strained.
"No." I glance at Octavian as he leans against the counter, still holding the gun like it's an extension of his arm. "But he went looking for Martin, didn't he?"
"Yeah. About that. He may have shot himself."
"I know. I was on the phone with him when he did."
