“And you’ll be there to help her through it,” said Mick, efficiently flipping the eggs. “So will I.”
He brought the coffee to her—cream, no sugar, exactly as she liked. She had no idea how he knew that. As she took the mug, she said, "This is what you do, isn’t it?"
"What?" he asked.
"It’s not just a matter of protecting, for you. It’s caretaking."
He shrugged. "I’m not exactly a mama hen, petite."
She set the coffee on the kitchen table and lay a hand on his free arm. "You take care of what’s yours," she said softly. "Your staff, your patrons, your bar, your home . . . " She trailed off.
Me.
She stopped herself before she said it. The whole idea was ludicrous. She’d known him less than a day. But she couldn’t deny the connection she felt with him, forged through their mutual love for Liza and the strain of extraordinary circumstances.
The arm beneath her hand was firm, solid with muscle. Steady, as he was. Through this whole nightmare, he’d been a rock, keeping her from flying apart. But it wasn’t gratitude making her heart race as he looked down at her with whiskey colored eyes. His arm moved, sliding behind her back to draw her nearer. His other hand cupped her face, the pad of his thumb tracing her cheek, his fingers curved warm and sure behind her neck.
It was easy to melt into him. Easy to lift her mouth to his. Their lips met on a sigh, clung. Something eased inside her, the tension ebbing at last to be replaced with soft, certain comfort. This was what she’d been missing. This sense of belonging, when she’d never belonged before.
Sophie rose to her toes, threading fingers in his hair, needing to be closer. He angled his head, changing the tone, taking the kiss deeper. And they were lost to the dark edge of desperation that had chased them through the long night.
“I really don’t think eggs are supposed to be that color.”
Mick jerked away and glared at the demon, which was peering into the skillet.
“We really need to have a talk about personal space and how you’re totally invading it,” he said, stalking over.
Sophie reeled from the loss of contact and curled her hand around the back of a chair to steady herself. She didn’t recognize the spate of Cajun French Mick spewed out as he fished the blackened eggs out of the skillet, but the meaning was clear enough. The demon looked amused.
“Scram,” Mick snarled. With a chuckle, the demon disappeared. With an apologetic glance in her direction, Mick said, “I can make more.”
“Bacon sandwiches are fine,” she assured him, lips quirking.
She slipped onto a bar stool at the island and watched as he dished up breakfast.
As he slid a plate of steaming food in front of her, he said, “I want you to stay.”
Something lurched in her chest and she opened her mouth to speak, but he rushed on.
“Not because you think you owe me something. But because you want to. Because you feel this…pull between us too.”
She used the time he took circling around to the stool beside her to try and organize her thoughts, sort through the attraction to the logic. “I want to stay.”
“Why do I hear a ‘but’ hanging out there?”
“I don’t have any idea where I stand with the IED. At the least I’ll be sanctioned for taking unscheduled leave. And if they find out about the Eye, well, that’s treason.”
“Both of those sound like excellent reasons not to go back.”
“True. But it’s not like I can just send in a letter of resignation. And one way or the other, we uncovered major intel from Cassius. Now I’m not stupid enough to do something that’s going to get me into further trouble with the Council, but I can’t just walk away from this. I have to investigate, verify. And if it’s true, then I have to figure out what to do with that. It’s all risky, and I don’t want to put you or anyone else in your Pack at risk.”
“There’s no ‘if’ about it. It’s true. The relevant questions are who and when.”
Sophie frowned at the conviction in his voice. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“There have been rumblings for a while that someone was planning to move against the Council, but we didn’t know who.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”