Page 87 of Fang Fatale

CHAPTER 13

ALARIC

Ihave never in my unlife been so grateful for a slow, domestic morning.

Which is an embarrassing realization, frankly, because my entire existence to this point has been a parade of high-octane melodrama, like an episode of a network drama that won't get cancelled because the executives are terrified of fan backlash. Flamboyant rivalries, nighttime races, heated exchanges—that was my normal. The closest I've ever come to "ordinary" was a three-month stakeout in Warsaw where I survived on nothing but pierogi and ennui.

But this morning, in the coven's alternate cabin (and I use the term cabin generously, given that it's three-quarters garage and one-quarter questionable kitchenette), something in me wants to curl up on the scratched linoleum and simply... exist.

Birdie's in the corner, methodically gathering what little we actually need. Her hair is pulled up, her eyes still hazy with the fog of someone who spent the night sleeping in fits and starts, but she moves with the quiet efficiency of someone who's packed in a hurry too many times before. Every shirt is folded neatly. Every zipper closes without hesitation. She doesn't stop to think about what to leave behind because she's had years of practice deciding what matters.

The realization settles somewhere uncomfortable beneath my ribs.

Nobody should become that good at leaving.

Theo and Trent are nowhere to be found. Which is suspicious, given that even on a hangover Trent is more reliable than a metronome. Theo announced they were "getting supplies" with entirely too much enthusiasm before disappearing out the front door, and Trent followed wearing the expression of a man who'd already accepted that arguing was pointless.

They've left us alone on purpose.

Traitors.

Birdie catches me staring and lifts an eyebrow.

"If you're waiting for me to turn into a pumpkin, sorry to disappoint you," she says, holding up a pair of pink socks like a flag of truce. "I'm just about done."

"I was thinking more Cinderella after the ball." I gesture vaguely in her direction. "You clean up nice."

Not my best line.

I'm running at half capacity.

Maybe less.

She sniffs, amused, as she settles onto the arm of the lint-laden sofa.

"Well, your ensemble has really set the standard. Is that blood on your collar?"

I glance down.

"Most of it is mine," I admit, tugging at the fabric. "You try wrestling a berserker with a bounty to earn."

"You know," she says thoughtfully, "most people would've led with 'good morning.'"

"I've never claimed to be most people."

"No," she agrees, smiling. "That much is painfully obvious."

There it is.

That smile.

Brief, effortless, and somehow bright enough to make the whole cabin feel warmer.

I want to bottle it and keep it in my pocket, or maybe pour it into my coffee mug instead of the usual tar. It's the kind of smile that could power an entire rural township for a week, and it makes my chest feel strangely light.

I don't trust it at all.

Packing should be simple.