Chapter 25 – JUNIPER
Chapter
Twenty-Five
JUNIPER
T he 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 a nice bed." 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 exists beyond 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?"
"It's nice," Felix admits, but his tone is flat as roadkill.
I turn to find him still by the door, arms crossed, looking at our new accommodations like they personally offended his mother. "What's wrong? This is like... a massive upgrade from the medical wing."
"It's a lovely cage, Juney."
The words land like ice water down my spine. "It has windows. Cages don't have windows."
His laugh is bitter enough to poison small animals. "What do you think bars are?"
Oh. Right. Windows you can't open, three stories up, in a compound crawling with guards who definitely aren't here for our protection no matter what Bane says. The golden cage is still a cage, even if it comes with Egyptian cotton sheets and a bathroom that could double as a spa.
"You want to test how far you get?" Felix continues, that dangerous edge creeping into his voice as he gestures to the window. "Be my guest."
I chew my bottom lip, considering. The shadows in the corner murmur their opinions.
Some vote for immediate escape, others suggest waiting, and one particularly loud one just keeps screaming the lyrics to a song I can't get out of my head.
He's my least favorite, and I've named him Todd.
But underneath all their noise, my own thoughts are surprisingly clear.
"I don't want to leave right now," I mumble, and even I'm surprised by the admission.
Felix's eyebrows climb toward his hairline. "You don't?"
"We're being hunted." I flop onto the obscenely comfortable couch, sinking into cushions that feel like the love child of clouds and memory foam. "Those assholes in the woods proved that. At least here we have... I don't know. Backup?"
"Backup," Felix repeats, like I just suggested we trust our lives to a pack of rabid hamsters.
"Besides," I continue, picking at a thread on the couch, "they're moving the base anyway."
Felix goes very still. "What?"
"Heard them talking about it earlier. A week, maybe less." I grin at his expression. "You're not the only one who can gather intel."
"When were you eavesdropping?"
"When wasn't I?" I shoot back, which isn't really an answer but makes him huff that almost-laugh that means I've won this round.
"Well, well. Isn't this a charming scene of domestic bliss?"
The voice makes us both jolt, and I look up to find Carlisle lounging in the doorway like he owns the place.
Which, technically, he might. The man has that particular quality of rich about him.
Rich and dangerous, which are usually my two least favorite flavors of alpha, but he wears them well.
Almost as well as that all-black suit, his golden hair catching the light in a way that should be illegal.
"Ever heard of knocking?" Felix asks, already positioning himself between Carlisle and me. Subtle as a fucking sledgehammer, my Felix.
"I did knock." Carlisle's smile is all teeth. "You were too busy discussing the amenities to notice."
The way he says 'amenities' makes it sound like something you could get arrested for in several states.
"What do you want?" I ask, trying not to notice how good he smells. Wine and expensive cologne and something darker that makes the shadows perk up with interest.
"I thought you might like to see the firing range." His blue eyes find mine, and there's something in them that makes my stomach do a weird flippy thing. "Since you seemed so... enthusiastic about the Miller-Borne."
My entire body lights up like Christmas came early and brought automatic weapons. "You really have a firing range?"
"State of the art. Climate controlled. Fully stocked." He pushes off the doorframe with that liquid grace that makes him look like he's floating instead of walking. "Seemed a shame not to show it off, especially since we'll all be leaving soon."
Felix tenses. "Are you supposed to be sharing that information?"
Carlisle laughs, bright and sharp. "Probably not. But I'm sure our clever little Juniper already knows." He winks at me, and fuck my traitorous face for blushing. "Don't you, darling?"
"I might have overheard some things," I admit, trying to ignore the way 'darling' makes my insides go squishy.
"Of course you did." Carlisle's attention is like a spotlight, intense and impossible to escape. "So? Shall we?"
I'm already moving before my brain catches up, because firing range means guns, and guns mean that beautiful piece of engineering I need to get my hands on. Felix follows with a sigh that suggests he's only coming to make sure Carlisle doesn't murder me. Or fuck me. Or both. Hard to tell.
The basement is nothing like I expected.
Instead of creepy concrete and suspicious stains, it's all high-tech panels and professional-grade everything.
The range itself stretches out longer than should be possible, with lanes separated by bulletproof glass and targets that can be adjusted with the touch of a button.
"Holy shit," I breathe, taking in the wall of weapons displayed like art. Pistols, rifles, things that definitely aren't legal for civilians to own, and—there she is. The Miller-Borne, gleaming under the lights like she's posing for a centerfold.
"Pick your poison," Carlisle says, gesturing to the arsenal with obvious pride.
My hands shake slightly as I reach for the Miller-Borne, lifting it with the reverence it deserves. The weight is perfect, balanced like a dancer who knows exactly where their center of gravity lives.
"Here." Carlisle moves behind me, his hands settling on my arms to adjust my stance.
The contact is electric, shooting through my nerves like lightning looking for ground.
His chest presses against my back, solid and warm, and his breath ghosts across my neck when he speaks.
"Feet wider. You want a stable base for the recoil. "
"I know what I'm doing," I manage, though my voice comes out breathier than intended.
"I'm sure you do." His hands slide down to my hips, adjusting the angle, and I have to bite my lip to keep from making a sound that would be really fucking embarrassing. "But even experts can learn new tricks."
Felix clears his throat loud enough to wake the dead. "Maybe give her room to squeeze the trigger."
Carlisle steps back, but not before I catch his smirk in my peripheral vision. "By all means."
I take a breath, center myself, and squeeze the trigger.
The burst is perfect. Three rounds, so close together they make a single hole in the target's center mass. The recoil barely registers, the gun's engineering eating it up like it's nothing.
"Fuck, that's good," I moan, and immediately wish I'd chosen different words because Carlisle makes a sound that's almost a purr.
"Again," he says, and there's something in his voice that makes it less suggestion and more command.
I empty the magazine in controlled bursts, each one finding its mark with surgical accuracy. When the gun clicks empty, I'm breathing hard, adrenaline and satisfaction making me giddy.
"My turn." Carlisle takes the gun with careful hands, reloading with movements so smooth they look choreographed.
What happens next is less shooting and more performance art. He doesn't just hit the targets, he paints with bullets, creating patterns that shouldn't be possible with burst fire. A smiley face. A heart. His own fucking initials.
"Show off," I mutter, but I'm impressed and we both know it.
"Your turn to show off," he counters, offering me a different gun. This one's a custom job, all matte black and modified components. "Let's see what you can really do, little killer."
Something about that term of endearment makes my heart flutter. Fuck this scent match bullshit, it's too damn strong.
What follows is the most fucked up flirtation I've ever been part of. We trade weapons and techniques, each trying to outdo the other. I shoot out the letters of my name. He shoots them out again in cursive. I put a bullet through the hole of another bullet. He does it blind.
"You're insane," I tell him, laughing despite myself.
"Clinically," he agrees cheerfully, a dangerous light in his eyes. "But you're keeping up beautifully."
Felix has been silent through all of this, watching from his position by the door like a disapproving parent at a school dance. Finally, he pushes off the wall.
"My turn."
Carlisle's eyebrows rise as Felix selects a simple Glock, nothing fancy, nothing modified. Just a standard service weapon that looks almost boring compared to the high-tech toys we've been playing with.
What happens next makes both Carlisle and me shut the fuck up.
Felix doesn't showboat. He doesn't make patterns or play games.
He just shoots with a mechanical precision that's somehow more terrifying than any fancy display.
Every shot perfect. Every grouping identical.
Like a machine designed for the sole purpose of putting bullets exactly where they need to go.
When he sets the gun down, the silence is deafening.
"I'm done," he announces, and walks out without another word.
Carlisle watches him go with an expression I can't quite read. Finally, that subtle smirk tugs at the corners of his lips. "He cares about you a great deal."
The observation catches me off guard, and suddenly the playful atmosphere evaporates. "We're all each other has had for a long time."
"What's that like?" Carlisle asks, and for once, there's no slyness in his voice. Just genuine curiosity. "The bond you share?"
I think about Felix, about the blood on his hands that's there because of me, for me. About nights when the shadows got too loud and he held me until they quieted. About a promise made in hell that we'd get out together or not at all.
"You wouldn't understand," I say quietly.
"No," he agrees, surprising me. "Perhaps not."
We stand there in the silence of the range, surrounded by weapons and the ghosts of bullets fired in play rather than anger. It's weird, this moment of almost-honesty with someone who probably dissects people for fun.
"I understand one thing, though." His voice is thoughtful, like he's working through a puzzle. "Vengeance. It's what drives Felix, isn't it? That cold fury that never quite goes away."
My breath catches. Because he's right. Felix runs on rage refined into something sharp enough to cut diamonds.
He's killed for me. Almost died for me a hundred times, and yet deep down, I know what he lives for.
"We're alike in that way," Carlisle continues. "But you... you're driven by something else entirely."
"What?" The word comes out more defensive than I intended.
He moves closer, and I should step back but I don't. Can't. Won't. His fingers brush a strand of hair behind my ear, the touch so gentle it doesn't seem possible from hands that have killed more people than he bothers to count.
"Love," he says simply. "Devotion. Such a fierce little creature with such pure motivation." He leans in, close enough that I can feel his breath on my earlobe, and his voice drops to something that makes my knees weak. "It makes you utterly fascinating."
He inhales, taking in my scent, and I'm frozen. If he kissed me right now, I honestly don't know what I'd do. Push him away? Pull him closer? Stab him with one of the many available weapons? All seem equally possible.
But he doesn't kiss me. He pulls back, that dangerous smile playing at his lips, and heads for the door.
"Turn the lights off when you're finished," he says over his shoulder, casual as discussing the weather.
And then he's gone, leaving me alone in a room full of loaded weapons.
The realization hits me like a slap. He's trusting me. Or maybe he's suicidal. Here I am, someone who tried to kill him, surrounded by enough firepower to level a small building, and he just... walked away.
The shadows whisper their theories, but I'm not listening. I'm too busy trying to figure out what the fuck just happened and why my lips are tingling from a kiss that didn't even happen.
Maybe it's both, I think. Trust and suicidality.
For someone like Carlisle, maybe they're the same thing.