Chapter 23
What Would You Do If I Kissed You?
Astrid Mathieson
My gun is pressed against his chest before my brain fully processes what's happening.
One moment I'm scanning the warehouse entrance, the next a massive blond Viking man is sitting in my passenger seat with a picnic basket between us like this is some kind of twisted Little Red Riding Hood scenario.
"What. The. Actual. Fuck." Each word comes out like a bullet, precise and lethal. My finger hovers over the trigger, close enough that any sane person would be having a panic attack.
Fen just smiles, completely unperturbed by the deadly weapon aimed at his heart.
"I don't want breakfast for dinner," I snarl, though my traitorous stomach chooses that exact moment to growl loudly. "I want you to explain why I shouldn't put a bullet in you right now."
He tilts his head slightly, golden eyes studying me with an intensity that makes my skin tingle. "Your scent," he says simply. "You like me and also," his smile widens, "because you dislike paperwork."
My scent? What is he smelling?
And then the worst part is that he's right about the paperwork. I'd have to explain why I shot an unarmed civilian who brought me dinner.
"Get out," I order. "Now."
"The hellhounds are watching us," he says calmly, nodding toward the warehouse entrance.
I risk a quick glance and tense immediately. Three massive canine shapes, more shadow than substance, red eyes fixed on our vehicle. One of them appears to be sniffing the air, head raised in our direction, jaws slightly parted to reveal giant black teeth that shine like obsidian.
"They look different up close," I mutter, eyes narrowing as I track their movements. "Those black teeth weren't visible from the rooftop yesterday."
"Yes, the teeth are unsettling, but they're just curious," Fen continues, as if discussing the weather rather than supernatural mythical beasts. "Don’t be concerned. We're not on their list."
"Their list?"
"Souls marked for collection," he explains, opening the basket and releasing a mouthwatering aroma of fresh baked goods and coffee into the car. "Hades only sends them for the worst of the worst. The truly damned."
I lower my gun slightly, my professional curiosity momentarily overriding my anger. "You're saying someone in that warehouse has been marked by Hades. The god of the dead?"
"Correct." He pulls out a thermos and what looks like a still-warm croissant. "Coffee? The brownies insisted on adding cinnamon. They said you'd like it."
"The brownies made me coffee?"
"And pastries." He holds one out like it's a peace offering. "They're very invested in your happiness."
"The same brownies I was sent to capture the other day." I still haven't taken the coffee or pastry, though the smell is making my mouth water. I've been here since early afternoon with nothing but a protein bar.
"The very same." His golden eyes crinkle at the corners. "They like you. Said you have a good aura, despite your... professional obligations. Also, they like me."
I stare at him over the barrel of my gun, weighing my options. On one hand, he's an unauthorized supernatural entity who keeps interfering with my cases. On the other, he's just handed me information about hellhounds that GUIDE likely doesn’t have.
My gaze flicks back to the warehouse entrance. Those creatures are the bigger threat right now, not the irritatingly calm Viking offering me pastries.
I exhale slowly, professional pragmatism winning out over protocol. Having an informant who understands these creatures could be the difference between solving this case and another dead end. Even if said informant makes my skin buzz in ways that lead my brain down very unprofessional paths.
I finally holster my weapon, though my shoulders remain tense. "You can't be here. I'm on an official stakeout."
"Then consider me unofficial backup," he suggests, still holding out the pastry. "The hellhounds are only the beginning, Astrid. Whatever's happening in that warehouse isn't something you should face alone."
"I'm not alone. I have—" I stop myself before saying I have backup, because I don't. Hayes made it clear this was surveillance only, and I'm on my own unless I find something concrete.
"You have me," Fen finishes for me, his voice gentler than I'd expect from someone his size. "Whether you want me or not."
I grab the pastry from his hand, needing to do something before I do something stupid like touch him. The first bite is frustratingly good—buttery and flaky with just the right amount of sweetness. "Fine. But you keep quiet. This is my operation."
"Of course," he agrees easily, pouring coffee into the thermos cap.
For the next hour, we watch in silence. The sun sets completely, streetlights flickering on across the complex.
I maintain my professional focus, documenting every movement of the hellhounds in my mental log, but I'm acutely aware of his presence beside me…
the steady rhythm of his breathing, the subtle scent of pine and earth, the warmth radiating from him in the cooling night air.
"You should drink this before it gets cold," he says finally, offering the coffee again.
I accept it without argument this time, my initial anger having faded to a reluctant pragmatism. The coffee is perfect, which only irritates me more. "How did you even get into my car?" I ask, suddenly realizing the doors were locked. "The alarm should have—"
"Brownie magick," he says, as if that explains anything. "Like I told you before, physical barriers remember when they were trees and ore. They can be persuaded."
"That's not—" I stop myself. There's no point arguing about the physics or metaphysics of magical lock-picking with a wolf shifter. "Just don't do it again."
Another thirty minutes pass as I note three more hellhounds materializing near the loading dock. Their movements seem more purposeful now, less patrol and more... anticipation. It reminds me of predators sensing prey is near.
Fen notices too. "Something's changing," he murmurs, leaning forward slightly.
"They're converging," I agree, professional instincts kicking in. "But nothing's happening."
Two more hours creep by. We fall into a surprisingly comfortable rhythm, trading observations about the hellhounds' behavior. I find myself impressed by his attention to detail, the way he notices patterns I might have missed. Despite my initial resistance, we're working well together.
"You're good at this," I admit finally, rolling my shoulders to release the tension from sitting still so long. "Surveillance."
"I've had some practice," he says with a small smile that suggests there's a story there.
The ease between us now feels dangerous, like standing too close to a cliff edge. My training screams at me to maintain professional distance, but something deeper, more instinctual, keeps pulling me toward him.
"What makes someone 'the worst of the worst'?" I ask finally, curiosity getting the better of me. "In Hades' opinion."
I glance over at Fen, catching the slight upturn at the corners of his mouth, the way his golden eyes brighten with interest. He seems pleased by my question, as if my willingness to engage in conversation is some kind of victory. Maybe it is.
"The truly damned have broken the most fundamental laws of existence," he explains, his voice taking on a storyteller's cadence. "Those who betray sacred trusts and those who harm the innocent for pleasure or power."
"Sounds subjective," I observe, taking another sip of the excellent coffee.
"The gods usually are." His smile is wry. "But Hades more than most has a clear code. Death comes to all eventually, but damnation is earned through deliberate choice."
I digest this information, watching another hellhound materialize near the loading dock.
My blood turns to slush in my veins, a reaction no amount of professional detachment can suppress.
If hellhounds hunt those who've committed unforgivable acts…
those who betray sacred trusts… where exactly does that leave me?
I'm supernatural, hunting my own kind for a human organization. I've captured countless beings, some who might have been innocent of any real crime beyond existing. Would Hades consider that a betrayal? Am I the kind of soul these creatures might someday come for?
My gaze drifts to the gun at my hip, to the GUIDE insignia on my jacket. The line between protector and traitor suddenly feels razor-thin.
"So whoever they're hunting in there has done something truly unforgivable," I say, my voice deliberately neutral as I push away the uncomfortable thought that someday, those glowing red eyes might fix on me instead.
"Or is about to," Fen adds, his expression darkening.
My shoulders ache, but the potential threat keeps me alert. Beside me, Fen remains a steady presence, his breathing even and controlled, his focus unwavering. It’s comforting to not be alone. Who am I kidding… he’s comforting.
"Want to play a game?" I ask suddenly, surprising myself. "Question for question. Fair exchange."
His eyebrows rise slightly, but his lips curve into a smile that makes my stomach flip in a dangerous way. "Sounds interesting. You start."
The question has been burning in my mind all day, the case file sitting in my bag like a ticking bomb. "Do you know anything about chimeras?" I ask, watching his reaction carefully. "The creatures I mentioned were in Rome."
His expression shifts subtly. His golden eyes sharpen with predatory focus, then shutter just as quickly—like watching a wolf retreat into shadow when it realizes it's been spotted. "They're ancient fae creatures," he says after a moment, his voice carefully neutral. "Why do you ask?"