Silence fell, and she became keenly aware of Ithan’s attention. “Hunt can fill you in on my joyous news,” she said, glancing at the clock. “I do have a meeting, and I need to get dressed.” Hunt arched a brow, but Bryce offered no explanation as she aimed for her bedroom.
She returned to the great room an hour later, showered and in work clothes. Hunt was already in his 33rd gear.
Bryce said to Ithan, who was doing push-ups in front of the TV with extraordinary ease, “I’ll pop back in at lunch when Tharion swings by. Help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge and call if you need anything.”
“Thanks, Mom,” Ithan said between reps, and Bryce stuck out her tongue.
Bryce unlocked the door, then buckled Syrinx’s leash before slipping into the hall. She’d been lonely in the archives yesterday without his company. And maybe a little jealous about the fact that Syrinx had spent the day with Ithan.
And it would have been nice to watch him take a bite out of Prince Cormac’s ass.
The elevator had just arrived when Hunt appeared behind her, and every muscle in her body turned electric. Had the elevator always been this small? Had his wings gotten larger overnight?
“Why are things so weird between us?” Hunt asked.
Going right for the throat, then. “Are things weird?”
“Don’t play stupid. Come on—last night was weird. Right now is fucking weird.”
Bryce leaned against the wall. “Sorry. Sorry.” It was all she could think to say.
Hunt asked carefully, “When were you going to tell me about Cormac dropping by the archives? What the fuck did he say?”
“That you and I are losers and he thinks I’m an immature brat.”
“Did he touch you?” Lightning skittered along Hunt’s wings. The elevator lights guttered.
The elevator reached the ground floor before she could answer, and they fell silent as they passed Marrin, the doorman. The ursine shifter waved goodbye.
Only when they’d stepped onto the sizzling sidewalk did Bryce say, “No. Cormac’s just a creep. Seems like this city is full of them these days.” She gestured to the sky above, the angels soaring toward the sprawling complex of the Comitium in the CBD. The decorations in Celestina’s honor seemed to have multiplied overnight. “No fights today, okay?”
“I’ll try.”
They reached the corner where Bryce would go right, Hunt to the left. “I mean it, Hunt. No more fights. We need to keep a low profile.” Especially now. They were too close to Ophion for comfort.
“Fine. Only if you call me the moment Prince Asshole contacts you again.”
“I will. Let me know if Tharion gets in touch. Or if you pick up anything about …” She glanced at the cameras mounted on the ornately decorated streetlamps and buildings. She couldn’t say Emile’s name here.
Hunt stiffened, wings tucking in. “We need to talk about that. I, ah …” Shadows darkened his eyes, and her heart strained, knowing what memories caused them. But here it was. The discussion she’d been waiting for. “I know you want to help, and I commend you for it, Bryce. But I think we really need to weigh everything before we jump in.”
She couldn’t resist the impulse to squeeze his hand. “Okay.” His calluses brushed against her skin. “Good point.”
“Tharion threw me off last night,” he went on. “It dragged up a lot of old shit for me—and worries for you. But if you want to move forward with this … let’s talk it through first.”
“Okay,” she said again. “But I’m still going to meet with Fury right now.” She had too many questions not to meet with her.
“Sure,” he said, though worry shone in his gaze. “Keep me updated.” He slid his hand from hers. “And don’t think we’re done talking about this weirdness between us.”
By the time Bryce had opened her mouth to answer, Hunt had already launched skyward.
Bryce slid onto a stool at the eight-seat counter that made up Tempest in a Teapot, her favorite tea bar in the city.
Nestled on Ink Street in the heart of the Old Square, most of the narrow, graffiti-painted alley was quiet, most of the shops shut. Only the tea bar and the tiny bakery operating out of a window between two tattoo parlors were open. Come lunch, the many eateries would roll up their doors and set out the little tables and benches that crowded either side of the street. Once the lunch crowd returned to their offices, the street would quiet again—until the after-work rush of people eager for a beer, a specialty cocktail, or more food. And sundown brought in a whole new crowd: drunk assholes.
“Morning, B,” Juniper said, her curly hair pulled back into an elegant bun, brown skin glowing in the morning light. She stood alongside Fury, who’d perched herself on a barstool and was scrolling through her phone. “Just wanted to say hi before practice.”
Bryce kissed her friend on her silken cheek. “Hi. You’re gorgeous. I hate you.”
Juniper laughed. “You should see me when I’m dripping with sweat in an hour.”
“You’ll still be gorgeous,” Bryce said, and Fury nodded without taking her focus from her phone. “Did you guys order?”
“Yeah.” Fury put away her phone. “So go ahead.”
Juniper said, “Mine’s to go, though.” She tapped her navy dance bag, which was partially unzipped, the soft pink of her leotard peeking out. For a moment, Bryce allowed herself to look at her friend—really look at the beauty that was Juniper. Graceful and tall and thin, certainly not the wrong body type.
What would it have been like to be heading into morning practice? To have a dance bag full of gear and not a purse full of random crap on her shoulder? Heels braced on the rail beneath the bar, Bryce couldn’t stop her feet from twitching, arching—as if testing the strength and pliancy of pointe shoes.
Bryce had known the high of performance well. Had craved it those years in Nidaros, dancing with her small team at the rec hall. She’d been the best dancer in town—in their entire mountainous region. Then she’d come to Lunathion and learned what a fragile bubble she’d been living inside. And, yeah, ultimately she didn’t think she could have lasted as long as Juniper, but … seeing the faun standing there, some small part of her wondered. Yearned.
Bryce swallowed, then sighed, clearing away the cobwebs of her old dreams. Dancing in Madame Kyrah’s class twice a week was pleasure enough. And though Kyrah had once graced the stage of CCB herself until she’d decided to open a studio, the dancer-turned-instructor understood.
So Bryce asked, “What are you guys rehearsing today?”
“Marceline,” Juniper said, her eyes flickering. “But I don’t have the lead.”
Bryce’s brows rose. “I thought you were rehearsing for it these last weeks.”
Fury said tightly, “Apparently, Marceline’s costume doesn’t fit Juniper.”
Bryce’s mouth popped open.
“Roles are often determined that way,” Juniper said quickly. “But I’m fine with soloist.”
Bryce and Fury swapped a look. No, she wasn’t. But after the disaster this spring, the CCB had put a hold on any “new” changes. Including June’s promotion from soloist to principal.