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“They’re staying at the Portman Grand Hotel,” I said and put my screen away. “I asked the OMB to tail them. That’s all they’ll do for now. All they can do.”
“Why does the AAM care about the Pack?” Lulu asked, taking her seat again. “Because of Elisa?”
“I assume they’re trying to intimidate us into giving away her location,” Connor said, sipping his drink.
Lulu snorted. “Have they never met shifters before?”
“Right?” Connor asked, his smile warm. “We’re happy to give them a fight. It’s kind of our thing.”
“Are you going to headquarters?” I asked.
He brushed fingertips across the back of my hand, the sensation sending a shiver through me. “I’m going to continue enjoying my evening. The Pack will meet them if they choose, or they’ll ignore them. Either way, the AAM will learn a valuablelesson.”
TEN
When dinner was done, we drove to Humboldt Park in the SUV Alexei had picked up outside the loft, pulled to a stop on a snug residential street.
Both sides were lined with town houses, some old and distinguished pale stone, some sleek and modern glass and steel.
Connor walked to one situated firmly in the middle of those two styles. Three stories of red brick that sat stoically on the corner, each level with three narrow windows topped by rough-hewn stone. A line of dark green molding trimmed the roof, and there was a small plot of green in front, hemmed by a short black fence and accented by a low Japanese maple, its leaves already turning brilliantly red.
“Nice,” Lulu said, as we ascended the stairs to the front door. Connor unlocked it, and we followed him in.
Old, honeyed wood gleamed nearly everywhere: the floor; the stairs that led immediately to the second floor; and in long, horizontal beams that crossed the foyer. I peeked into the room on the left, found built-in bookshelves and a fireplace surrounded by dark green tile with a hint of sheen. A low velvet couch looked perfect for reading. It led to a dining room with more warm wood, more bookshelves, and a long pendant lamp of glass and iron.
“It’s like modern Frank Lloyd Wright,” Lulu said, giving it what I’d come to think of as her narrowed artist’s stare.
“It is,” I agreed. It was old-fashioned—missing the round edges and gleaming white surfaces that were popular now—but it was beautiful.
We walked through to an open kitchen where more tile gleamed above copper countertops. Modernity took over again with sleek appliances. A few steps led down to a sitting area nestled in a bay window nook that was open to the floors above it. An enormous artscreen hung on the side wall, blues and greens shifting and melding until they became waves crashing rhythmically against a rocky shoreline.
I put down my bag, walked to the bay window, looked out on the back of a grassy walled garden that appeared to flow down the side of the house, bounded by an ivy-covered brick wall. A glass and steel conservatory, total Victorian luxe, bumped out from the building into the yard.
“Damn,” Lulu said, standing beside me. “Seriously nice.”
It was a gorgeous house, but having the luxury of a yard in a tight Chicago neighborhood? Much less the conservatory, the bay atrium, the wood... And all of it elegant, but not fussy. Antique, but also modern. Someone had taken great care to make every detail in this house matter; they’d wanted it to last, and last it had.
Lulu turned to Connor while I goggled at the yard. “So, does the Pack own this place or what?” she asked.
“No,” Connor said. “It’s mine.”
I looked back at him. “Yours? Like, an investment property?”
“Mine, as in, I bought it. To live in.”
“You’re moving out of the Keene house?” I asked. The house was full of shifters—three generations of them.
“I moved out when we came back from Minnesota.”
It took a full minute before I was able to speak again. “You bought a house, and moved out of your family home, weeks ago.”
Lulu cleared her throat, reminding us we weren’t alone, then picked up the bag I’d dropped. “Alexei, do you know where the guest room is?”
Alexei nodded, gave Connor a look, and they made their escape through the house. Through the house Connor owned, with the honeyed wood and the huge yard and the conservatory.
“Is there a problem?” Connor asked when we were alone.
I felt a thousand emotions at once. Surprise that he’d left the home shared by three generations of his family, shocked that he had the financial chops to up and buy a town house in Chicago, anger and hurt that he hadn’t thought to share either of those things—huge, life-changing things—with me.
