Bryce’s fingers curled into fists, but she set her phone facedown on the glowing, fogged glass. “Weren’t you going to tell me your heartbreaking story about your amazing girlfriend? What would she think about the way you manhandled me and practically devoured my neck the other night?”

She regretted the words the moment they were out. For so many reasons, she regretted them, the least of which being that she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about that moment of insanity on the roof, when his mouth had been on her neck and she’d started to completely unravel.

How good it had felt—he had felt.

Hunt stared her down for a long moment. Heat rose to her face.

But all he said was “I’ll see you at home.” The word echoed between them as he set another purple tonic on the counter. “Drink that one in thirty minutes.”

Then he was gone, prowling through the empty bar and onto the street beyond.

Hunt had just settled onto the couch to watch the sunball game when Bryce walked into the apartment, two bags of groceries in her hands. About fucking time.

Syrinx flung himself off the couch and bounded to her, rising onto his back legs to demand kisses. She obliged him, ruffling his golden fur before looking up at where Hunt sat on the couch. He just sipped from his beer and gave her a terse nod.

She nodded back, not quite meeting his eyes, and strode for the kitchen. The limp was better, but not wholly gone.

He’d sent Naomi to monitor the street outside that fancy whiskey bar while he hit the gym to work off his temper.

Manhandled. The word had lingered. Along with the truth: he hadn’t thought about Shahar for a second while they’d been on the roof. Or in the days following. And when he’d had his hand wrapped around his cock in the shower that night, and every night since, it hadn’t been the Archangel he’d thought of. Not even close.

Quinlan had to know that. She had to know what wound she’d hit.

So the options had been to yell at her, or to exercise. He’d picked the latter.

That had been two hours ago. He’d cleaned up all the obsidian salt, walked and fed Syrinx, and then sat on the couch to wait.

Bryce set her bags onto the counter, Syrinx lingering at her feet to inspect every purchase. In between plays, Hunt stole glances at what she unpacked. Vegetables, fruits, meat, oat milk, cow’s milk, rice, a loaf of brown bread—

“Are we having company?” he asked.

She yanked out a skillet and plunked it on the burner. “I figured I’d make a late dinner.”