Hunt just scanned her face. This—calling her parents, sitting thigh-to-thigh with her … Fucking Hel.

He was on a one-way collision course. He couldn’t bring himself to stop it.

Before Hunt could open his mouth to suggest that this might be a mistake, a female voice said, “And why exactly would he need liquid courage, Bryce Adelaide Quinlan?”

Chapter Fifty-Six

56

A stunning woman in her mid-forties appeared on the screen, her sheet of black hair still untouched by gray, her freckled face just beginning to show the signs of a mortal life span.

From what Hunt could see, Ember Quinlan was seated on a worn green couch situated against oak-paneled walls, her long, jeans-clad legs folded beneath her.

Bryce rolled her eyes. “I’d say most people need liquid courage when dealing with you, Mom.” But she smiled. One of those broad smiles that did funny things to Hunt’s sense of balance.

Ember’s dark eyes shifted toward Hunt. “I think Bryce is confusing me with herself.”

Bryce waved off the comment. “Where’s Dad?”

“He had a long day at work—he’s making some coffee so he doesn’t fall asleep.”

Even through the video feed, Ember possessed a grounded sort of presence that commanded attention. She said, “You must be Athie.”

Before he could answer, a male eased onto the couch beside Ember.

Bryce beamed in a way Hunt hadn’t seen before. “Hey, Dad.”

Randall Silago held two coffees, one of which he handed to Ember as he grinned back at his daughter. Unlike his wife, the years or the war had left their mark on him: his black braided hair was streaked with silver, his brown skin marred with a few brutal scars. But his dark eyes were friendly as he sipped from his mug—a chipped white one that said Insert Cliché Dad Joke Here. “I’m still scared of that fancy coffee machine you bought us for Winter Solstice,” he said by way of greeting.

“I’ve shown you how to use it literally three times.”

Her mother chuckled, toying with a silver pendant around her neck. “He’s old-school.”

Hunt had looked up how much the built-in machine in this apartment cost—if Bryce had bought them anything remotely similar, she must have dumped a considerable portion of her paycheck on it. Money she did not have. Not with her debt to Jesiba.

He doubted her parents knew that, doubted they’d have accepted that machine if they’d known the money could have gone toward paying back her debts to the sorceress.

Randall’s eyes shifted to Hunt, the warmth cooling to something harder. The eyes of the fabled sharpshooter—the man who’d taught his daughter how to defend herself. “You must be Bryce’s sort-of roommate.” Hunt saw the man notice his tattoos—on his brow, on his wrist. Recognition flared across Randall’s face.

Yet he didn’t sneer. Didn’t cringe.