Page 22 of Branding the Bat

But Trevor's arms were around him, and the water was warm, and Trevor had said ‘I'll tell you everything.’ Not there's nothing to tell. Not you're imagining things. He'd acknowledged the secret and asked for time.

That was something. That was more honesty than Wade had given him in four months.

"Okay," Sero said. "But Trevor, whatever it is, I'd rather hear it from you than find out on my own."

"You won't have to find out on your own. I promise."

The word promise sat in the water between them. Sero let it float.

They stayed in the bath until the water cooled and Sero's fingers pruned. Trevor wrapped him in a towel the size of a bedsheet, warm, soft, smelling of the same lavender, and they ended up on the couch in borrowed sweatpants, watching a documentary about octopuses, which Trevor insisted on calling "my people."

Sero fell asleep with his head on Trevor's chest.

When he woke, the TV was off and a blanket had been draped over them both, and Trevor was asleep beneath him, one arm still around Sero's shoulders. The apartment was dark except for the kitchen light, which Trevor must have left on deliberately, a small, warm glow against the night.

Sero closed his eyes and listened to Trevor's heartbeat and didn't think about the workshop or the duffle bag or the things that didn't add up. He thought about persimmons, and the way someone who researched your fruit might be someone worth staying for.

Chapter Seven

The shark was waiting in Trevor's parking lot on Monday morning.

Trevor saw him from the building's lobby, a thick man leaning against a black SUV with tinted windows, arms folded, watching the door with the flat patience of a predator who had nowhere else to be. He smelled him before he got too close: salt water and fish, the briny stench that clung to sharks even in human form, as if the ocean refused to let them go.

Trevor considered going back inside. His apartment had a lock and a fire escape and enough canned food to last a week. He could wait the shark out. Sharks were patient, but they were also easily bored, an evolutionary advantage in open water, a liability on land.

But the shark wasn't alone. A second one sat in the driver's seat, visible through the windshield as a silhouette and a glint of teeth. And Trevor's car was right there, ten feet from the SUV, and he had a Wednesday session with Sero that he couldn't miss and a life that required him to leave his apartment occasionally.

He squared his shoulders and continued across the parking lot.

"Trevor." The shark didn't uncross his arms. His voice was pleasant in the way that a knife was shiny. "You're a hard man to get on the phone."

"I've been busy." Trevor kept his voice even. "I sent the shipment. Your boss should have received it by now."

"He did." The shark pushed off the SUV and took a step toward him. Just one. Enough to close the conversational distance from casual to intentional. "He wasn't happy."

"I told your people, the quality varies. It depends on the subject, the timing, a lot of factors. I can't guarantee every batch is premium."

"The Grizzly doesn't care about your process, Trevor. He cares about results. And the results he got from that batch—" The shark shook his head with theatrical disappointment. "Two hours. That's what he got. Two hours, and most of it was limp. His words, not mine."

"I'm sorry to hear that. The next batch—"

"The next batch needs to be like the one you gave him six months ago. The one that lasted a full day. He's been talking about that one like it was a religious experience." The shark's eyes narrowed. "What was different about it?"

Trevor's stomach dropped. Six months ago. That had been a particularly good session with a wolf, genuine chemistry, genuine pleasure, none of the fear or coercion that ruined most batches. The yield had been a strong yellow, the best Trevor had produced at the time. He'd thought it was a fluke. Now the Grizzly wanted it replicated, and Trevor had no way to explain that quality depended on variables he couldn't control: the subject's emotional state, their trust, their willingness to be present.

And sitting on his shelf at home were two vials that made the wolf's yellow look like dishwater. Gold that the Grizzly didn't know existed. Gold that Trevor would not, under any circumstances, let the Grizzly know about.

The shark was watching him think.

"Let me check my records," Trevor said carefully.

"Check whatever you want. But the Grizzly remembers what good feels like, and he wants more of it. He's willing to pay triple for a batch that matches what he had. Triple, Trevor. That's a lot of money for a housecat who lives in a ground-floor apartment."

The insult was casual and precise. Trevor let it pass. "I'll see what I can do."

"You'll do more than see." The shark unfolded his arms and reached into his jacket. Trevor tensed, but what came out was an envelope, not a weapon. The shark held it out. "Half up front. The Grizzly's being generous. He likes you, Trevor. He doesn't want to have to stop liking you."

Trevor took the envelope. It was thick. He didn't open it.