When Jamie finally spoke, his tone was hushed, and Lanny was expecting it. The air had vibrated with hesitant silence, the kind that wanted to be broken. “Hey, um,” he said. “You and Trina – you’re dating, right?”
He snorted. “I dunno what you want to call it. We’re something.” Or at least they had been, before his turning. She twitched every time he touched her now, and he couldn’t blame her for that. She smelled nice – too nice – and he didn’t trust the wanting that built when he was around her, the need that was focused strongest in his mouth and throat and belly.
“Are you nervous about, you know, hurting her? Accidentally?”
“What do you think?” He hadn’t meant to snap, nor to growl. But.
“It should come in handy at work, though,” Jamie said, changing the subject. “Chasing down criminals, making arrests. You’re not wrong about the super powers.”
No, he wasn’t. Lanny opened his hand across the lid of an old steamer trunk, examined the fine, pale web of surgical scars that mapped the bones beneath the skin. His bad hand, the one that had been mangled in a bar fight years ago, the one that had lost him his preferred career, felt better than it ever had. He flexed his fingers and there was no stiffness, no catch in the joints. He made a fist and a thrill moved up his arm, down his spine. Healed; being turned had healed him.
He caught Trina’s scent before he heard her voice: the lavender soap in Colette’s bathroom, and Trina’s skin, its own unique smell. She paused in the other room to tell Alexei and Sasha that breakfast was ready.
His whole body was vibrating by the time she propped a shoulder in the doorway and said, “Bacon’s on if you guys are interested.”
Jamie set down the lamp he held and headed for the stairs with the glee of a kid who’d just heard the ice cream truck.
Lanny waited, until it was just the two of them.
Trina had borrowed clothes from Colette: slouchy jeans with patches of silk, and lace, and velvet; a blousy peasant top with flowers embroidered around the collar.It softened her edges, made her look more feminine and vulnerable than she ever wanted to seem.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey.” She fiddled with the hem of her shirt and glanced across the room, toward the massive hanging lamp with its stained-glass grapes and leaves that Jamie had gone nuts over. “Damn, is that a real Tiffany?”
“That’s what the art major said.”
She whistled. “Damn. There’s probably all sorts of amazing stuff down here.”
“Probably.” He didn’t give a damn about rare furniture. “Maybe after breakfast you can come sort through it with us.” He was a little ashamed of the hopeful note in his voice, but unable to stem it.
“Maybe.” She frowned. “We need to go back to work. I called the precinct and said we were out chasing leads, but that won’t work as an excuse long-term. Shit.” She massaged the spot between her brows with a fingertip. “I don’t know what we’re going to do. I hate sitting around feeling helpless. Like somedamsel.” She spat the word, lip curling in disgust.
“I seriously doubt there’s ever been a damsel in your family.”
She smiled, faintly, looked up at him through her lashes. “Mom plays one, sometimes, when she wants something from Dad.”
“But not you.”
“Nah. I’m all Baskin.”
Just like her great-grandfather.
And he was all Webb – which sometimes meant he was as contemplative as his father, but most of the time meant he was blunt and fiery as his mother.
“Is it going to get better?” he asked.
“Is what going to get better?”
“Us.”
She stared at him a long moment, and he felt the push-pull of one step forward, two steps back. She had leaned into him outside the hospital yesterday, but then she’d flinched away walking up to Colette’s door last night.
“You’re the one who said I was the same person,” he said, bitter now.
“I know,” she said, softly. “You are. It’s just…instinct, I guess. Fight or flight.”
“Because you don’t trust me.”
