Page 30 of Shadowed Bond

But I had, and I can’t get that image out of my head.

There is no way I’m admiring Charlotte Arden. I just need to get fucking laid; it’s been a while.

The dining room is small, old-fashioned and smells of toast, coffee and damp coats. Charlotte moves through the room with the same elegant ease she carries everywhere as she heads over to the buffet table. She selects toast, fruit and tea, which is a light snack in my opinion, as if we’re about to attend a polite meeting rather than crawl back into bloodstained tunnels.

I put more food on my plate and, without thinking too hard about it, add another slice of toast to hers.

She looks at it, then at me. I wait for the comment, knowing it’s going to come.

But it doesn’t, not immediately anyway. She takes a seat at the small table we’re at and picks it up. For a second, I’m prepared for her to toss it back onto my plate, but instead she takes a bite of it.

“You really like to make sure people are fed. If your manners were more polite, I would say you’d make a good host.”

I lean back in the chair. “Na, I don’t have time for that shit. You didn’t eat enough yesterday.”

“I did eat.”

“You nibbled.”

Her mouth curves slightly behind the rim of her teacup. “How observant. Have you ever thought that’s just the amount of food my body needs?”

The words shouldn’t sound like anything more than teasing, but they do. Maybe because her eyes hold mine over the steam rising from her cup, and for a second, the noisy room seems to fade into the background.

My gaze dips to her stomach. She is a tiny thing, but she’s not short either. I look away first, annoyed at myself.

“Eat your toast, Princess.”

“I am,” she replies, amusement clear in her voice.

I focus on my food, tearing half the toast off in one bite and swallowing it pretty easily.

I sense her staring and cock a brow. “What?” I ask. She shakes her head.

“I have the right to remain silent.”

“Good,” I reply, because we both know she was about to remark on my eating habits.

Once we’re done eating, we check out; it’s the same receptionist, and she looks between us with the same expression as last night, but says nothing. Charlotte thanks her with an easy smile, and I don’t bother adding anything, because apparently my manners ain’t great.

Outside, the air is cold, and we get into the car, setting out onto the road again.

When we reach the pack, daylight doesn’t improve the Desert Storm Pack at all. Charlotte gets out with her tablet already in hand.

Her hair lifts slightly in the wind, a few strands escaping around her face as she studies the land, and I hate that I notice that.

“I retraced yesterday’s route and marked it properly, so hopefully we aren’t repeating ground again. So let’s head down and go the opposite direction this time.”

I nod, not saying anything because, for once, I do not feel like arguing.

We make our way back to the manhole, the grass wet around our boots, the morning silence pressing heavier the deeper we move through the pack grounds. Charlotte walks beside me, close enough that her shoulder almost brushes mine more than once. She doesn’t move away, and neither do I.

It is nothing. Just uneven ground, just the narrow path. This is just a mission.

The manhole cover is still tossed aside in the weeds, and Charlotte gives it a look that says she disapproves of how I left it. I almost make a comment, but stop myself.

Less talking is probably safer.

I lower myself down first, avoiding the snapped rung, and clear the water beneath me with the slightest use of power, not wanting to attract anything but also not wanting to dirty my clothes from the get-go either. The reminder of how wet and sodden I felt last night returns, and it dampens my fucking mood.