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But it was our best option.
“On the way, can we discuss in detail how good he looks naked? Almost makes it worth his testy teenage years.”
Shaking my head—and more than a little flustered to find I agreed with her—I followed her back to the car.
• • •
I checked my injuries in the car. The cut at my neck was nearly invisible, the slice along my shin deeper, but knitting together nicely. My cheekbone was bruised, and the mark would take longer to disappear. Bruises always did.
The Carpathian wasn’t the typical shifter hang, if there was such a thing, given that the NAC Industries building probably blew the curve on what was typical. It was a train car, long and silvery blue, its metal gleaming in the moonlight. The roof was curved, the sides pinstriped, the narrow windows glowing between crisp white curtains. Hydrangeas with white clouds of flowers lined the metal staircase that led into the entrance door.
The bike was already there when we pulled into the gravel lot. Connor leaned against it, helmet propped on the seat, screen inhand. He put it away when we walked toward him, then reached out, ran a thumb lightly across my cheekbone.
“You’re hurt,” he said, tilting my chin into the light. “Your father will see that.”
I ignored the frisson of heat from his touch. “I’ll heal.”
“I’m sure you will. Make sure he doesn’t do anything rash.”
“He never does,” I said. My father was the most controlled person I knew.
We walked inside, found a dozen narrow booths lining the walls and a kitchen at the other end. Four of the tables were occupied. One by a single, three by couples old and young, who talked quietly and clearly enjoyed their food. There was a small stand at the other end of the train car, nestled between the wall and the door to the kitchen, where a turntable spun a violin concerto that rolled softly through the air.
“It’s... intimate,” Lulu whispered.
“And friendly,” Connor said, watching a woman walk toward us. She was slender, with pale skin, dark hair, and enormous eyes set in a heart-shaped face. She wore a white apron over trim, dark pants and a dark shirt, and kept her gaze on Connor.
“Keene,” she said when she reached us, then looked us over.
“Natalia.”
She said something in what I guessed was Ukrainian. He responded in the same language. More talking, and a glance at the smears of grime on Lulu’s clothes, the bruise on my cheek. Her eyes narrowed.
“There will be no trouble here,” she said, voice thickly accented.
“None,” Connor agreed. “The trouble was left behind.”
Another moment of hesitation, and she relented, pointed to a booth, asked another question.
“Tak,”Connor said with a nod. Natalia walked to the bar, and he put out a hand, gestured us into the booth.
Lulu slid in, and I slid beside her. Connor took the other bench.
“It’s been a long time since we’ve done a late night in a diner,” Lulu said, gaze tracking across the restaurant’s interior.
“I’m sure that was entertaining for everyone,” Connor said.
I crossed one leg over the other. “We didn’t have money, so we’d order black coffee and eat the free crackers and jelly.”
“How did you not have money? Your parentsareCadogan House.”
“Not a lot of part-time jobs for teenagers who could only work at night. I did chores in the House, but that money only went so far.”
His smile was dubious. “Because you had a staff to pay?”
“Because she has a coffee habit,” Lulu said, and pulled a paper menu from the holder at the edge of the table, handed one to me. Only a few items were on the menu, and all of them had at least one indecipherable ingredient. There were four kinds of artisanal water.
“You still picky?” Connor asked.
