"Carlisle might beat you to it," Archer observes. "You see how he looks at them?"
Yeah, I've noticed. Carlisle's obsession has gone from concerning to potentially catastrophic. The way he watched Juniper handle that rifle, like she was performing just for him.
"We need to keep an eye on him," I say, though we both know that's like saying we need to keep an eye on a nuclear bomb. You can watch it all you want, but if it decides to go off, you're fucked regardless.
"He won't hurt them," Archer says with more confidence than I feel. "Whatever else Carlisle is, he's loyal to the pack. And they're pack now, whether they accept it or not."
Pack. The word sits heavy between us. Four alphas and two omegas who'd rather die than admit they need us. What a fucking family portrait that would make.
"The client's still out there," I point out, steering us toward problems we can actually solve. "Whoever hired them to kill us isn't going to stop just because the first attempt failed. And now they know where our base is, roughly."
"You think they were watching us before Felix and Juniper?"
"Hard to say. But I think someone with very deep pockets wants us dead and isn't afraid to spend whatever it takes to make it happen." I pull up the map of the surrounding area, marking where we found the bodies. "The fact that they sent a kill squad after Felix and Juniper means they're tying up loose ends. Which means?—"
"Which means they're planning something bigger," Archer finishes. "Fuck."
"Yeah." I stare at the map, trying to see patterns that aren't there yet. "We need to increase patrols. And we need to find out who the fuck is behind this before they take another shot at us."
"Felix gave you that information, right? The shell company and the address?"
"Already had Carlisle's contacts looking into it. The address was cleaned out, like Felix predicted. But the money trail might lead somewhere if we dig deep enough."
"Carlisle has contacts who can trace international shell companies?" Archer raises an eyebrow.
"Carlisle has contacts who can do a lot of things we don't ask questions about," I remind him. "That's why we keep him around despite the whole—" I wave my hand vaguely, "—being a complete psychopath thing."
"That and he's very good at killing people who need killing."
I snort. "That too."
Chapter
Twenty-Five
JUNIPER
The bed bounces under me like a trampoline, and I can't help the giggle that bubbles up from somewhere deep. Springs creak in protest as I launch myself higher, my fingers barely grazing the ceiling before gravity remembers I exist and yanks me back down. The mattress is softer than anything we've slept on in years. This is the kind of bed rich people die in, all memory foam and thread counts high enough to make mathematicians weep.
"This is fucking amazing!" I announce, bouncing again just to watch Felix's eye twitch from where he's standing by the door like a guard dog who forgot he's supposed to be the one being guarded.
"It's a bed, Juney. Not a carnival ride."
"It's anicebed." Another bounce, and this time I manage a little spin mid-air that probably looks ridiculous but feels like flying. "In a nice room. With actual windows!"
And fuck me, there are windows. Real ones, not those tiny basement slits that tease you with the possibility of sunlight but never deliver. These are floor-to-ceiling panels of glass that show actual sky, actual trees, actual proof that the world existsbeyond concrete walls and recycled air. Late afternoon light pours through them like liquid gold, painting everything warm and soft and almost safe.
I scramble off the bed—reluctantly, because that mattress and I still need to define our relationship—and press my face against the glass like a kid at an aquarium. Except instead of fish, I'm watching clouds drift by like they've got nowhere important to be.
"We're on the third floor," I observe, my breath fogging the glass. "That's... high."
"Observant as always." Felix's voice carries that particular brand of sarcasm that means he's thinking too hard about something. Probably eighteen different escape routes and why none of them will work.
The room itself is bigger than any apartment we've ever squatted in, outside the warehouse loft. There's a sitting area with a couch that looks softer than sin, a desk that's probably worth more than most people's cars, and, holy shit, an adjoining door that leads to another bedroom. Like we're fancy people who need options.
"Felix, look!" I dart to the bathroom and nearly have a religious experience. "There's a tub you could swim laps in!"
The bathtub is less tub and more small pool, made of gleaming white marble with jets and fancy taps that probably require an engineering degree to operate. I've never seen anything like it outside of movies where people have problems like "which yacht should I take to Monaco?"
