Dog with a Bone (13 page)

“You sound tired.”

Shaw’s voice in my ear made me smile. “Yeah, well, you sound exhausted.”

He chuckled. “Did Mai finally go home?”

“About thirty minutes ago,” I said. “I fell asleep when I was supposed to be admiring the flex of Jeremy Renner’s biceps in some action flick she bought to add to her collection. Mai slapped me for insulting her man with my short attention span then left in a huff muttering about how I wasn’t maid of honor material.” I dug the remote from under me. “How about you? Are you home for the night?”

“Not yet.” A bell tinkled in the background. “Did you call your mom?”

“She does not know and does not wish to know.” If he heard the bitter edge in my voice, then he ignored it. He was polite like that. “If I get hurt on the job, I want her worst-case scenario to be some guy pulling a gun on me or a car accident or whatever else
CSI
has taught her kills cops. That’s why I signed the cremation voucher my first day. Whatever happens, she doesn’t need to know the truth.”

His end of the call stayed quiet.

“Sorry.” I swung my legs over the side of the bed. “I didn’t mean to unload all over you.”

“You’re fine.” Static crackled. “If I didn’t want to know, I wouldn’t have asked.”

I screwed up the nerve to reciprocate. “What about you? Have you made your life-affirming calls?”

“I’m doing that now.”

Heat swept through my chest, prickling up my neck. “Oh.”

“Have you—?” A blaring car horn cut him short. “Asshole.”

I scowled at the phone. “Excuse you?”

“Not you.” He grunted. “Have you eaten?”

I covered my mouth, swallowing hard, forcing myself not to dwell on Tobias Long, the caelifera fae Mrs. Richardson had used as her food source for the last three months. “No. I’m not hungry. You?”

“Open your door,” he answered.

“I’m in my pajamas,” I warned him.

A teasing note entered his voice. “Same ones as last time?”

“No.” I plucked at my Eeyore sleep shirt. “Unless...” I snorted, “...was that a request?”

“Sure,” he said after a moment. “Take off the pajamas you’re wearing.”

Fingering the hem of my shirt, I walked around the room in search of Pooh. “And then?”

“And then open the door.”

I straightened. “We’re not at the place in our relationship where I answer the door nude.”

A purely masculine groan vibrated in my ear. “Fine.”

Knocking sounds commenced, and I cautiously approached the peephole in my door. What can I say? It had been that kind of day. Peering through the fisheye lens, I spotted a weary Shaw carrying a cardboard box with a familiar winery logo emblazoned on the side.

“What have you got there?” The words tumbled out before I got the door unlocked.

“Dinner.” He slid past me into the room. Glass tinkled when the box hit the desk.

My eyebrows climbed. “Since when are you on a liquid diet?”

When his response was to mash his lips together, a sense of dread coiled around my chest. “Would you like ice or a glass with your meal?”

Shaw reached into the box and pulled out two bourbon glasses. “I’ve got us both covered.”

I approached the desk and inspected a dark purple label on a wine bottle. “Sweet Dreams, huh?”

“Brewed by narcoleptic pixies under the full moon.” He recited the label verbatim.

“Do we need—” I counted the corked tops, “—seven bottles?”

The thick-bottomed glasses hit the desk with a thump. “The evac team found the other shelters.”

The cushion of wellbeing I had built up over the past few hours burst. “And?”

“The Richardsons sealed the vents over the four other containment areas the night before.”

I dropped into the nearest chair, suddenly ready for that drink. “Were they occupied?”

“Thierry...”

Leaning forward, I braced my elbows on my knees and covered my face. “That’s a yes.”

“We couldn’t have saved them,” he said softly. “They were gone by the time we got there.”

Biting the inside of my cheek, I nodded. “What about Mr. Long?”

“They couldn’t save him.” Shaw’s hands settled my shoulders. “He died on the way to the medical ward.”

“How do you do it?” I wiped the dampness from my cheeks.

He began a slow massage that made me feel worse for feeling better. “Believe it or not, sometimes the good guys actually win.”

“Not this time.”

“We stopped two people from processing fae like livestock. That’s a win in my book.”

“We don’t know how they accessed those fae or how they transported them here. This happened in our territory. We should have known.” I gulped a sharp breath. “This doesn’t feel like winning.”

The firm hands on my shoulders vanished. “You have to take victories where you find them.”

“Yeah” was the best answer I could manage.

“The magistrates reported the crime to the Faerie High Court. It’s out of our hands.” He circled until his boots touched my toes. “We caught the leak on our side. Now they get to plug the hole on theirs.”

“How is that enough?” I examined the mud flaking from his boots onto the tops of my feet through my fingers. “For them or us?”

“It’s all we’ve got.” He sat on his haunches and pried my hands from my face. “The world is an awfully big place. You need to accept now that you can’t fix it. Do the best you can to make it better when you leave than it was when you got here. That’s all you can do. It’s enough. It has to be.”

Gazing into his eyes, witnessing his sincerity, made it easier shrugging off the guilt. For now.

“I also thought you might be interested to know the Richardsons’ boggart has been taken into custody.”

“I guess they had to remove him, huh?” He wouldn’t allow the Richardsons’ things to be collected and the apartment to be cleaned for listing otherwise. “He would have been one heck of a deterrent for potential renters.”

“They removed him because evidence was found linking him to the disappearance of Rosalie Lindt.” He explained, “She worked for a local maid service. She was the second Molly Maid to vanish after cleaning the Richardson’s apartment.”

The blood I found on the bed had been hers. “Thank you.” I touched his cheek. “Her family deserves closure, even if they can’t know her killer was captured.”

Gaze dipping to the floor, he shrugged. “I was tying up a loose end in a case.”

Knowing better than to press my luck, I pointed to the wine. “Are you pouring, or am I?”

“There’s something I want to do first.” He leaned forward, knees touching the ground. Walking forward on them, he wedged his hips between my thighs and wrapped his arms around my waist. Wide palms cupped my rear, dragging me closer until my hips were flush against his. “I almost lost you today.”

I shuddered against him. “If I never see the inside of a giant worm again, it will be too soon.”

“I’m serious.” His hands glided up my sides, smoothed over my shoulders. His fingers trailed over my throat until he cradled my face between his warm palms. “You let that annuli swallow you.”

“It was him or us.” The math was simple. Even for me. “I chose us.”

“This is me...” his warm lips brushed mine, “...choosing us.”

I groaned into his mouth, hating to be the sensible one. “Are you sure?”

His face obscured my vision, his nose almost touching mine. “You don’t trust me?”

I bit the inside of my cheek, but ultimately I told him exactly what had been bumping around in my head for the past few days. Sometimes I couldn’t stop myself from blurting out the truth. “You’re used to using the incubus thing as a shield. Someone wants sex, you lower the shield. Someone wants more than sex, you raise the shield and pump ten thousand volts through it to discourage climbing.”

A crease formed between his eyes. “What?”

“Your dietary needs might be a restriction if I were, say, human. I’m not. I think I’ve proven that I can satisfy you.” When the tiniest pinprick of white dotted his eye, I swallowed hard. “I meant that I’m capable of feeding you. The question is, can you survive on chicken-salad sandwiches night after night after night? Because dietary restrictions or not, if we do the dating thing, then I expect fidelity.”

“In this analogy...” he rubbed his jaw, “...you’re the chicken-salad sandwich?”

I nodded. “Correct.”

“Then we have a problem,” he said, withdrawing from me, his voice thick with regret.

The tense spot in my chest coiled tighter. “At least you’re honest.”

He used the arms of the chair to push to his feet. “See, I’m allergic to mayonnaise.”

“You aren’t serious.” I hesitated when he reached for me. “Wait. Is the mayo thing an analogy for commitment?”

Without answering, he pulled me to my feet and spun me around, shoving me onto my bed.

“If only you were fried chicken.” He palmed my shoulder and pushed until my back hit the mattress. “Or lemon chicken.” He straddled my thighs. “Or even chicken tenders, then we could be together.” Leaning forward, he covered my body with his much larger one. He braced a palm near my ear and bent down, letting me watch as his pupils faded to stark white. Nails on the hand beside me elongated, and he used them to slice through the fabric of my pajamas. “All this chicken talk is making me hungry.”

I clutched the material over my breasts. “Too bad about your allergies.”

“Tomorrow, after work.” Shaw buried his face in my neck. “I’ll pick up an EpiPen.”

“Cute.” I screwed my thumbs into his sides until his panting laughter made me chuckle.

Twisting to break away from me, he hit the edge of the tiny twin bed and tumbled onto the floor, bringing me down on top of him. I landed sprawled across his hips, which Shaw didn’t seem to mind since he gripped them and pressed down as his rolled upward against my core. My eyelids fluttered shut.

With reverent hands, Shaw slid my top down my arm, tossing it aside. I figured him for a breast man, but he just lay there, soaking in the view. “Beautiful.” One leg hole in my shorts was intact even if the other side was cut down the seam. As he tugged the fabric aside, a rough growl vibrated through his chest. White rims circled his irises, but he was still Shaw, still with me. That primal, hungry part of him gazed out at me longingly, there one minute and gone the next.

Brushing his hands aside, I unbuckled his belt and popped the button on his jeans. His zipper tab was pinched between my fingers, his claws embedded in the carpet, when pounding started on my door.

A low snarl rose up his throat. “Ignore it.” He gripped my hip hard enough to leave bruises.

Eyes crossing as he continued grinding against me, I slid the tab down one tortuous click at a time.

“Marshal Thackeray,” a prim voice called. “I assure you ignoring us won’t make us go away.”

“Damn fae super hearing,” I grumbled.

“We heard that,” replied the slightly irked voice.

Shaw pushed up onto his elbows, leaning forward to capture my bottom lip between his teeth. The sound I made when he bit down earned me a throat-clearing through the door.

“I’m coming,” I called. Shaw’s husky chuckles made me flush ten shades of red. “
Shaw
.”

“Jackson,” he corrected as he gripped my waist and lifted me onto my feet.

Unable to fit my mouth around his name, I scrambled over his long legs, hit the bathroom where I snagged a robe, then peeked through the hole in my door. A lean woman with pale blonde hair was checking her watch. Two men flanked her, both wearing black combat fatigues and carrying swords.

I gulped. “Um, Shaw, you might want to zip up for this.”

Taking his time, he stood, fastened his pants and drew his shirt back over his head. He was well on his way to looking respectable by the time I opened the door and our guests entered my room.

“We have a lead on the poacher who supplied the Richardsons.” The petite woman wrinkled her nose at the chair by the desk. One of her guards removed a packet of antibacterial wet wipes from his pocket and wiped down the seat. After the streaks dried, she sat. “Your magistrates were kind enough to offer your services to us in the hopes of apprehending them before they cross back into Faerie.”

Shaw came to my side and folded his arms over his chest. “Who is
us
exactly?”

“My name is Irene Vause.” Her laser-sharp glare would cut through steel like butter. “I’m a magistrate with the Northeastern Conclave.”

I frowned at her. “An interdivisional loan?”

A dangerous edge entered Shaw’s voice. “Why aren’t your own people handling this?”

Her cornflower-blue gaze locked with mine. “We have our reasons.”

“Thierry is a week into her OJT,” Shaw said. “I’m not sure working outside our district is wise.”

Another time, when I was less naked and more informed, I might have argued with him and his ideas for me. But he was my training officer, and my friend, and I trusted him to have a better reason for stepping between me and an opportunity than some misguided-caveman, almost-had-sex instinct.

“I am sure,” Vause answered in a quiet voice. “We will double any bonuses you incur and cover all travel expenses.” The edges of her lips twitched. “I understand you enjoy flying, Marshal Shaw.”

I gritted my teeth in what I hoped passed for a smile. I knew that joyride would bite us on the ass one day, but I figured Mable or someone from accounting would be issuing the wrist slaps and not an actual magistrate. Considering I had only met our magistrates once in the five years I had been sheltered by them—on the night I was examined before being given sanctuary—I wasn’t sure what protocol was in dealing with them. How hard could I push? How hard would they push back?

As if reading my mind, Vause asked, “What do you think of our proposal, Marshal Thackeray?”

I turned to my partner. “Shaw?”

“I asked for your opinion.” Vause narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. “Not his.”

Once again, the truth got the better of me. “I want the job.”

“The money...” her gaze took in our surroundings, “...could improve your situation.”

I took a step forward, and her guards did too. “I’m not in this for the money.”

Amusement danced in her eyes, her expression softening. “Your father would be proud to hear you say so.”