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Ethan had never seen anyone’s face go so white so fast before.
Footsteps echoed through the destroyed gallery as Thorn entered, his massive form solidifying from shadows. He surveyed the damage with grim satisfaction.
“Police are en route. We have approximately four minutes.” Thorn’s gaze fixed on Pope. “Silas found evidence of seventeen active tracking sigils, twelve suppression devices in various stages of completion, and a client list that includes three sitting council members and a federal prosecutor.”
“And Voss?” Ethan asked.
“He was in the basement. Alive, but he’ll need medical attention.” Thorn’s shadows wrapped around Pope, reinforcing Rook’s bindings. “We’re taking Pope to Shadow House for interrogation. Take everything you need, and we’ll leave the rest for the police.”
Ethan gathered the manuscript pages and photographed the remains of the ward patterns before sirens wailed in the distance. His ribs ached where Pope had struck him, and exhaustion was settling into his bones.
Rook appeared at his side, shadows gentling around Ethan’s waist. “You broke the suppression device by hand.”
“The mechanism was poorly designed. Too much pressure on the activation button compromised the entire structural integrity.”
“You tackled an occultist armed with a ceremonial dagger.”
“He was running. Letting him escape would’ve been a really foolish idea.”
Rook’s hand cupped Ethan’s face, thumb brushing across his cheekbone. The bond pulsed with pride and lingering terror. “You’re going to give me a heart attack.”
“We’ve discussed this, and it’s very unlikely. Your cardiovascular system doesn’t function the same way as…”
Rook kissed him, and the bond blazed between them, fear and fury melting into relief. When they broke apart, Ethan’s analytical mind – what was left of it - noted that his pulse had elevated significantly, his hands were shaking from an adrenaline crash, and Rook’s shadows were checking his injuries.
“We need to leave,” Thorn said.
They disappeared through the building’s rear entrance as police vehicles surrounded the front. Rook kept one arm around Ethan while shadows carried Pope’s bound form. By the time they reached the extraction van, Ethan’s ribs were screaming, and his hands had started bleeding from the broken glass.
Cillian was already inside with Voss, who looked significantly worse than when Ethan had last seen him. Silas had evidence bags containing Pope’s client list and device blueprints.
Rook pulled Ethan onto his lap despite the limited space, shadows wrapping around them both like a cocoon.
“Never again,” Rook murmured against Ethan’s temple. “You’re never playing bait again.”
“Statistically, that’s unrealistic. Pope’s network has multiple branches, and we’ll likely encounter similar situations…”
“Ethan.”
The bond carried Rook’s exhaustion, his terror, the horrible moment when he’d felt Pope’s blade descend toward Ethan’s throat and couldn’t reach him fast enough.
Ethan’s fingers laced through Rook’s. “I’m okay. We’re both okay.”
“This time.”
“Every time,” Ethan corrected. “Because we’re partners. You trust me to think on my feet, I trust you to be terrifying. That’s how this partnership works.”
Rook’s shadows tightened around him, and through the bond, Ethan felt his mate’s reluctant agreement.
They drove back to Shadow House, Pope secured and Voss barely conscious, while Ethan tried to process what had happened. While he was too tired to compartmentalize everything, one thing was clear. There was still a lot to do.
But they’d just dismantled the second major trafficking operation in Madison, recovered evidence that would destroy multiple corrupt officials, and proven that Pope’s forty years of research couldn’t account for a beacon who refused to be afraid, or a guardian who listened to his mate.
Ethan’s ribs ached, his hands burned, and his mate was being overprotectively clingy. Not only that, but he’d managed to do all that without succumbing to a level five anxiety attack. All in all, it was a successful operation.
Chapter Seventeen
Rook woke to the sound of typing, and for a moment he thought he’d dozed off in the meeting room. It wasn’t the kind of typing that suggested someone had discovered an emergency or uncovered a critical lead. No, this was methodical, rhythmic typing…as if a certain someone was documenting new information into a spreadsheet perhaps.
