Rain through the gap in the wall. The distant wail of a siren somewhere deeper in Bushwick.
“Did you call meyour territory?”
“That came out wrong.”
“No.” She stared at him. Battered, barefoot, sitting on the wreckage-strewn ground of her own home. “I think it came out exactly right.”
The moment stretched. He was naked on her hardwood, exposed in every way a person could be exposed. She was bruised, furious, processing a revelation that should have sent her running. Neither of them moved.
“The hearing.” She crossed her arms. “Enhanced?”
“Yes.”
“The scent thing. At Chelsea Market. In the workspace.”
“Yes.”
“The way you tracked the subway after I went underground.”
He blinked. “You noticed that?”
“I noticed you standing on the sidewalk for forty-five seconds after I walked downstairs. I looked back. You were listening.” She paused. “For the train?”
“For you. On the train.”
“That’s—” She stopped herself. Recalibrated. Moved on. “The protectiveness. The way you position yourself between me and every exit, every crowd, every stranger who gets within arm’s reach.”
“Instinct. But also choice.”
“How much is instinct and how much is choice?”
“Sixty-forty.” He met her gaze. “The ratio shifts depending on the day.”
“Toward which side?”
“You don’t want me to answer that.”
She met his stare for a long beat. Then—impossibly—the corner of her mouth twitched. The split lip reopened. A thin line of red traced her chin.
“I have so many questions.”
“Figured so.”
“We’re going to be here all night.”
“Figured that too.”
“First—” She grabbed the throw blanket off the couch and lobbed it at his head. “Put on pants. I refuse to have a conversation about supernatural biology with a naked man on my floor.”
He caught the blanket. Wrapped it around his waist with the dignity of a man who’d already lost all his dignity and was improvising. The knot in his sternum loosened by a fraction.
She wasn’t running.
He cleanedthe split on her lip with trembling fingers.
The first aid kit from under her bathroom sink. Cotton pads. Antiseptic that made her hiss between her teeth. He sat on the edge of the couch—blanket knotted at his hip, his own cut still seeping through the gauze she’d pressed against it before he could stop her—and held her chin steady while he worked.
His hands shook. The same hands that had torn through two men in another form sixty seconds ago. Shaking, against her jaw,because she was hurt and the sight of her split lip was doing damage to his nervous system that no amount of discipline could override.
