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The first time I awoke, it was to a foreign space.
Not that I had actually opened my eyes, but everything felt off.
The ceiling was too low, the walls too close, the cold air leaching in through the window was on the left instead of right.
I asked where I was—at least, that was my intention, but the words felt garbled and slurred in my mouth.
I wasn’t even certain they were understood, so I tried again.
An ice-cold cloth was pressed to my forehead and cheekbones, and the shock of it made me wonder if I’d come down with a sudden fever.
Even this touch was alien. Gentle in the sense of…
feminine delicacy. Not the sort of gentle roughness of a man that I’d recently become acquainted with.
And the scent. Lavender and citrus, but not Sandringham.
Too lemony. Too clean. Too bright a base.
Like counting knots in the beams overhead.
Good night, Special Agent Hamilton .
“Jesus goddamn Christ.”
There was a low chuckle to my right. Warm and husky and familiar. “Mind your manners, Hamilton.”
I opened my eyes and struggled to sit up in a bed not my own.
My head was pounding, and the pulse behind my left eye felt as if the thing were about to rupture.
I rubbed hard enough to create black spots in my vision, then belatedly took in the state of my partial undress.
No suit coat, waistcoat, tie—cuffs and collar were gone too.
The first few buttons of my shirt had been undone.
I peered to my right to see Gunner in a wooden chair, his posture relaxed despite what looked to be a terribly uncomfortable seat.
He’d also ditched his suit coat and had rolled back the sleeves of his shirt to advertise the cords of muscle in his forearms. Beside him stood a woman, perhaps my age.
She wore a dress decidedly middle class—a pretty thing of mauve, with a bit of ruffle around the middle and buttons all the way up to her lace collar, but it was, despite its festive color, a practical piece of wardrobe.
Her hair was coiled and pinned in place atop her head, bringing focus to her brown eyes and the dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose.
I hastily pulled the front of my shirt closed, then remembered the bite mark Gunner had left on my neck and plastered a hand over it. “Where am I?”
“Ms. Zelda’s Home for Wayward Agents,” Gunner answered.
I blinked a few times. “Did you just tell a joke?”
His mouth twitched as he crossed his legs.
Ms. Zelda, I presumed, smiled sweetly. “You overtaxed yourself, Agent Hamilton.” She moved to the table beside the bed, where a glass of amber liquid and a bowl of what looked like breakfast cereal sat, then picked up a hand mirror. She offered it and discreetly touched the hair at her own temple.
I took the mirror, raised it, and swore. “ Damn it .” I brushed a fresh streak of steel gray hair back and tried to comb it underneath the brown with my fingers. It didn’t work. “Pardon my language, ma’am.”
“That’s quite okay, sir. This very thing happened a time or two to my brother.”
I raised my brows as she took the mirror and set it aside. “Your brother is a caster?”
“Was,” she said with another smile, but this one was hollow. “He passed in the war.”
I could barely catch my breath at her words, like they’d punched me in the chest and left me gasping with bruised and broken ribs. “I—I’m so sorry.”
She inclined her head in that polite way one does about such subjects, then motioned to the table again. “A hearty meal and a bit of brandy will right you.”
“Thank you.”
Gunner stood and opened the door as Zelda turned to leave. She requested he send for her if anything was needed, to which Gunner agreed, and after she lingered, blushed, and hastily saw herself out, he gently shut and locked the door.
“It’s your arms,” I stated.
“I know.”
“You’re going to cause an innocent woman to faint.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
I picked up the bowl of cereal, stirred the contents without enthusiasm, and looked at Gunner again. “Why’s that?”
“Because you enjoy looking too.” He inclined his head at the bowl and said while walking across the room, “Eat your breakfast.”
“It’s morning?” I asked before taking a bite.
Gunner pulled back the curtain at the window and early-morning sunlight seeped into the little room. “You slept through the fireworks.”
I grunted.
“And our New Year’s kiss.”
“This tastes like wallpaper.”
“Connoisseur of arsenic and lead, are you?”
I raised my head. “What?”
Gunner approached the bed, leaned down, took my chin, and kissed my mouth. His stubble tugged lightly against my own and sent a pleasant shiver through my body. “For auld lang syne, my dear.”
I smiled and leaned up for a second kiss. “Happy New Year.” As I pulled back and studied Gunner’s face, I noted that exhaustion was visible in the cracks of his porcelain expression. “Have you not slept?”
Gunner straightened his posture, his hand still on my jaw, thumb rubbing my whiskers. “We need to talk about what happened last night.”
“Lie down with me?” I asked, but it came out like a whisper.
Gunner nodded, circled the foot of the bed, and brought his abandoned chair to the door.
He wedged the back under the knob, knelt to unbutton his shoes, and then took the bowl from my lap and set it on the table.
Gunner offered the brandy, which I choked back in one swallow, and then he climbed into the too-small-for-two bed.
We both lay on our side, staring at each other.
I reached a hand out, tentatively slid my fingers between Gunner’s, and brought his hand to my neck.
He caressed for a moment, the gritty roughness of his calluses against the bite causing my prick to stiffen.
Then Gunner brought his hand up and fingered the new gray hair at my forehead.
“Mama’s side of the family.”
I swallowed hard and said, “I lied.”
“I know.”
“To survive.”
Gunner simply stared at me.
“How can anybody be so perceptive?”
“You’d rather I wasn’t?”
“I didn’t say that,” I replied. “I just… don’t understand how you can see what no one else ever has.”
Gunner threaded his fingers through my hair, his hand eventually settling on the back of my head. “We’ve both lived lives, Gillian. Mine made me an observer. Whatever you lived, it made you a survivor.”
A survivor.
I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose. “Sounds pathetic.”
“Survival is anything but.” Gunner’s fingers started playing with my hair once more. “I want to understand the magic you used last night. That’s all.”
I pulled my hand away from my face but didn’t look at Gunner.
“I’ve no qualms with pointing a Waterbury at a tanker and demanding a ride to a decent lodge outside of the Five Points—”
My eyes snapped open. “You didn’t.”
“I certainly wasn’t going to carry you for a dozen blocks.”
“Gunner—”
“This wasn’t anything like what happened in Arizona, Gillian.
You were unresponsive the entire night. What would have happened if you’d been alone—left face-first in the middle of the road on the goddamn Bowery?
” Gunner’s voice hadn’t risen, but his tone had become frighteningly emotional.
“Best case, you’d have been robbed. Worst case, fucked and probably killed.
” Gunner removed his hand from my head, rolled onto his back, and sat up.
He swung his legs over the edge, set his feet on the floor, and stood.
I quickly followed his movements, but had to stop with my legs hanging off the side of the mattress as a wave of dizziness overcame me. I studied Gunner’s back—the rigid posture and firm line of shoulders. He put his hands on his slender hips and paced to the door. “Are you mad?”
Gunner made a quick about-face in his stocking feet.
“I’m worried,” he corrected. “When I look at you, Gillian, I see an intensely private man, and I can respect those boundaries. But I also see heartache and shame and despair. And I see you using these long-ago-obtained sentiments to control the life you have now.”
“Are you done?”
“No.” Gunner returned to the bed, looking down at me. “I see a man who is terrified of himself. Of his magic—”
“I am not,” I said while hastily getting to my feet.
“Of his tendencies—
“How dare you?”
“And of his feelings.”
“You’re goddamn full of it,” I said, jabbing a finger into Gunner’s chest.
He ignored that and finished with, “I see a man who’s so desperate to keep surviving, he just lied to my face three times.”
Something inside me blew. Like the gasket on a steam contraption. Suddenly it was spewing scalding-hot vapors, pressure gauges were going haywire, and the escaping steam was hissing like a demon deep in the pits of Hell.
I started laughing as I said, “You want me to say you’re right? Fine. You are. About everything.”
“Gillian, that’s not the point.”
“I’m New York State’s only registered level five caster,” I explained.
“Level five because if the federal government found out I can test much higher, I’d disappear.
So I lied to the FBMS. And I’m not a physically appealing man,” I continued, thumping my chest. “I’m short.
I’m small. I’m not handsome. And when a man isn’t fucking Adonis,” I said, motioning at Gunner as if to make my point all the more clear, “he becomes the butt of some very cruel jokes. So I deny my tendencies. But I just want to be loved so badly , Constantine. And every day I feel utterly ashamed of myself for it. I feel so gross for relishing the attention you show me, because my entire life, all I’ve heard is how terrible sodomites are.
So I keep lying about everything because I don’t know any other way to live. ”
The room had dimmed as clouds rolled across the morning sky. My face was wet with tears, but before I could raise a hand to wipe my cheeks, Gunner moved forward, wrapped his arms around me, and lifted me off my feet.
He hoisted me up enough that I could wrap my legs around his hips, and then he whispered in my ear, “You’re loved, my dear.”