Chapter Five
The plane touched down in Bozeman with a thud that Flint felt in his bones.
Seventy-two hours of hell, but he’d got the job done - the vampire wouldn’t be trafficking any more shifter children, and apparently a number of them had been found and were now safe, all thanks to what he’d done.
But everything that could’ve gone wrong had.
The ward drop that should’ve happened Thursday night?
Delayed until Friday because some pencil pusher at the London office couldn’t read a calendar.
Flint had spent an extra twenty-four hours in position on a rooftop across from the hotel, lying flat on damp shingles while London drizzle soaked through his jacket.
His snake hated the cold. Hated it with a passion that made Flint’s human side equally miserable.
When the wards finally dropped, and Flint made his shot - clean through the penthouse window, right between the vampire’s eyes as he sat at his desk counting money from his latest sale - the escape had been textbook. Easy, even. Flint was good at disappearing.
The safe house, though. That had been a different story.
Flint shouldered his duffel bag and shuffled down the narrow airplane aisle, his legs stiff from the long flight. The safe house was supposed to be clean, stocked with food, a place to decompress after a kill. Instead, he’d walked into a disaster zone.
There were pizza boxes on the counter, someone’s dirty socks were on the couch, and the bathroom looked like a crime scene.
Flint had ended up sleeping on the floor with his jacket as a pillow because the bed sheets were questionable, and he couldn’t find any clean ones.
A few hours that could only be considered a nap, and he was ready to go home.
That didn’t work out as intended either.
Flint took a private plane because it was the only way he could carry his rifle with him, while agency contacts kept him away from customs. But when he called, using his burner phone, to ask the pilot to fly a day early, he’d been told the agency’s private plane was already in use.
Some executive was flying to Paris for a “consultation,” which Flint knew was code for “someone more important than you needs it.”
So Flint had waited and even cleaned the safe house himself because leaving it dirty would’ve reflected poorly on him, even though it wasn’t his mess.
He ordered takeout, which upset his stomach - and that was saying something because his snake side could eat anything.
But most of all, he tried not to think about Arrow.
He failed spectacularly at the not thinking about Arrow part. Joys of meeting a mate, ho, ho.
The terminal at Bozeman was blessedly quiet, just a handful of travelers shuffling toward baggage claim. Flint bypassed it. His carry-on duffel and rifle case already had the right tickets on them, in case anyone stopped him, courtesy of the pilot.
All he had to do was get from the plane parking area to the parking lot where Python was supposed to pick him up. And that’s easy. All I need to do is look for the flashiest car in the lot, Flint sighed as he hurried through the terminal.
Pulling out his phone as he walked, Flint’s thumb hovered over the power button. He wasn’t expecting any messages, although Pax and Wren often included him in a group chat. But they’d know, the same as he did, that his private phone was always kept off during a job.
That was standard procedure to ensure he didn’t get distracted and left no connections that could be traced. But now, standing in the fluorescent-lit terminal with the smell of airport coffee making his stomach growl, he powered it on.
To his surprise, the screen lit up and notifications flooded in. There were twelve missed calls and fifteen text messages, all from Pax and Wren.
What the hell?
Flint stopped walking, letting other passengers flow around him as he stared at his phone. His heart kicked up a notch, and a heavy pit developed in his gut. The sort of feeling reserved for when something went wrong on a job, such as when a target moved unexpectedly or backup didn’t show.
He opened the first message. It was from Pax, sent the day before: “I am allowed to curse him, right?”
Flint’s eyebrows drew together. Curse who?
The next message was from Wren: “He’s already locked up, so it’s not fair to curse him as well, am I right, Flint?”
Locked up? Flint scrolled faster, trying to piece together what he’d missed. There were photos, although they were all blurry as if they’d been taken in low light. A figure slumped against a wall. Chains? No, just shadows.
Another text from Pax: “He looks MISERABLE. Good.”
Wren again: “Devon says we should at least give him a blanket.”
Pax: “Devon’s too soft. Let the puppy freeze.”
Puppy.
Flint’s blood ran cold, then hot. His fingers tightened on the phone. They couldn’t mean...
“Hey.”
Flint’s head snapped up. Python stood a few feet away, dressed in his typical uniform of tight black jeans and a leather jacket. His long hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, and he carried a to-go cup from some fancy coffee place Flint didn’t recognize.
“You look like hell,” Python said cheerfully.
“Who’s locked up?” The words came out sharper than Flint intended.
Python’s smile didn’t fade, but something flickered in his eyes. “Welcome home to you, too.”
“Python.” Flint stepped closer, lowering his voice even though the terminal was nearly empty. “Who. Is. Locked. Up.”
Python took a long sip of his coffee, deliberately slow. “Your mate.”
The world tilted. Flint’s snake stirred, confused and agitated. “Arrow?”
“The one and only.” Python gestured toward the exit. “Come on. I’ll explain in the car.”
Flint didn’t move. “You locked Arrow in the sawmill.”
“We locked Arrow in the sawmill,” Python corrected. “It was a group decision. Well, Pax suggested it, but we all agreed.”
“For three days?” Flint’s voice climbed higher.
“He showed up at your house in the middle of the night like a stalker.” Python’s tone lost its playful edge.
“Tracked your scent to your front porch. Storm, Devon, and Levi caught him sniffing around. What did you expect us to do? Invite him in for tea? You’re lucky Storm and Devon didn’t kill him, because that was their plan. ”
Flint’s mind raced. Arrow had come to his house. Arrow had tracked him. Arrow had...
“You should’ve called me.” But even as Flint said it, he knew how ridiculous that sounded.
“Right.” Python’s eyebrow arched. “Call you while you’re lining up a shot on a vampire trafficker to let you know your asshole mate is trespassing. Great plan. Really professional.”
Flint’s shoulders sagged. He was too tired to be dealing with any shit and too strung out from three days of cold rooftops, dirty safe houses, and missing his mate even though he had every right to be angry.
“Is he okay?” The question slipped out before Flint could stop it.
Python’s expression softened. “He’s fine. Pissed off, uncomfortable, probably going insane from the mating pull. But fine.”
“No one actually cursed him, did they?”
“Pax wanted to. I talked him down to psychological torture instead.” Python grinned. “That pixie’s got a real creative streak when he’s defending his friends.”
Flint rubbed his face. “I can’t believe I’ve come home to this.”
“Believe it.” Python steered him toward the exit with a hand on his shoulder.
“Arrow made his choices. Now he gets to live with them. And if locking him in a sawmill for three days makes him realize he can’t just bulldoze his way into your life?
Then good. He needed the time to realize how badly he fucked up. ”
The automatic doors slid open, and cold Montana air hit Flint’s face, clean and bright after London’s perpetual dampness. Python’s current obsession - his sleek black Maserati - sat at the curb, looking wildly out of place next to the pickup trucks and SUVs, just like Flint had thought it would.
“Get in,” Python said. “We’ll swing by the sawmill, let lover boy out, and then you can decide what you want to do with him.”
Flint slid into the passenger seat. The interior smelled like expensive leather and Python’s cologne. His duffel and rifle case landed in the back seat with a quiet thud.
“What did you tell him?” Flint asked as Python pulled away from the curb.
“About what?”
“About me and where I was.”
Python merged onto the highway, the Maserati purring like a satisfied cat as he pressed his foot against the accelerator. “Just the basics - that you were working, needed to focus, and that he didn’t get to interrupt your job just because his wolf couldn’t handle you two being apart.”
Flint stared out the window. The mountains loomed in the distance, snow-capped and familiar. So different from London.
“He did ask about the job you were on,” Python continued. “After we told him he was staying in the sawmill. He wanted to know what you were doing.”
Probably trying to work out how long he had to escape. “What did you say?”
“The truth. That you were tracking a vampire who traffics shifter kids. That you needed every ounce of focus to make the shot count.” Python glanced over. “I’ve got to admit, when we said that, he looked like someone had punched him.”
Good. Flint’s snake hissed with satisfaction. Arrow needed to understand what Flint actually did. Needed to get it through his thick skull that Flint wasn’t just a pretty face in tight jeans, that there were times when children’s lives depended on his skill.
But underneath the satisfaction, Flint couldn’t deny the guilt he was feeling either. Arrow had been locked up for three days because of him, because he’d sent that blank piece of paper and refused to engage.
No. Flint’s jaw tightened. Arrow’s locked up because he treated me like trash. Because he never even asked my name before demanding I bend over for him.
“You’re thinking too hard,” Python said. “I can hear it from here.”
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to him.”
“How about ‘go fuck yourself’? That’s always a solid opener.” Python’s grin flashed white in the darkness. “Or you could let Pax curse him after all. He’s got at least a dozen ideas I had to veto.”
Despite everything, Flint felt his lips twitch. “What kind of ideas?”
“Well, there was the fire ant sensation. That was Pax’s favorite.
Then Wren suggested making his clothes shrink every time he got aroused, which - given the mating pull - would’ve left him naked pretty quickly.
But then he was naked already, because he’d been in his wolf form when he snuck into our little alley, and Devon objected because he’d loaned Arrow something to wear. ”
Python drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Storm wanted to force him to wear earphones with recordings of you talking, just to torture him, but Devon vetoed that as too cruel, and Levi pointed out we didn’t have any recordings of your voice.”
Flint shook his head as he sighed. “Devon’s right. That is too cruel, so I’m glad no one has ever thought to record me.”
“Storm’s a crocodile. Cruelty is kind of their thing.
” Python took the turn toward the dirt road that led to the back of Cyrus’s property.
The road narrowed, trees pressing in on both sides.
“Seriously, Flint. You don’t owe Arrow anything right now.
Not forgiveness, not a conversation, not a goddamn thing.
He shows up, he grovels, and maybe you listen. That’s how this works.”
Flint’s phone buzzed. Another text from Pax: “We’re at the sawmill. Arrow shifted, and he’d been howling for the last hour. It’s PATHETIC.”
Wren: “Should we let him out now or wait for you?”
“They’re all there?” Flint asked.
“Everyone except Cyrus. He’s working on something in the shop. Storm, Devon, Levi, Calvin, Wren, and Pax - a whole welcome committee.” Python’s voice turned serious. “No one’s letting Arrow near you unless you want him near you. He will not hurt you again. Clear?”
Flint nodded. His throat felt tight. The sawmill came into view, a hulking shadow against the night sky. Lights blazed from inside, and Flint could see figures moving around. Storm’s bulk was unmistakable, and Pax’s glowing wings left trails of light as he zipped back and forth.
Python parked next to Devon’s truck. “Ready?”
No. Flint wasn’t ready. His snake was coiled tight in his chest, uncertain whether to strike or flee. Arrow was in there. Arrow, who smelled like home and safety and everything Flint wanted. Arrow, who’d called him a pretty boy-toy and assumed he was only good for cooking and sex.
“Yeah, as ready as I’ll ever be,” Flint lied.
He climbed out of the car. His legs were stiff from travel, his body exhausted from three days of stress, damp weather, and hunger. He probably smelled like an airplane and stale coffee. His hair was a mess, his clothes rumpled.
Not exactly the powerful image he wanted to project when facing down his mate for the first time since sending that blank piece of paper. It is what it is.
The sawmill door stood open. Flint could hear voices inside - Pax’s high and excited, Devon’s low rumble of caution. And underneath it all, a sound that made Flint’s snake raise its head.
Whining. The desperate, broken sound of a wolf in pain.
Not my problem, Flint told himself. He did this. He chose this.
But his feet carried him toward the door anyway.