6. Jagger
JAGGER
The knock comes again, sharper this time, and three things happen in the space of a single heartbeat.
First, Meatball bolts from the unconscious body of Targash and scuttles beneath the kitchen island with a wet, panicked slap of tentacles on tile.
Second, Sabine's face drains of every last ounce of color, her brown eyes going so wide I can see the whites all the way around.
Third, my mind snaps into the cold clarity that has kept me alive through twelve years of hunting dangerous creatures in the supernatural underworld, and I understand exactly how catastrophic this situation looks.
An unconscious criminal sprawled on the floor. Shattered glass glittering in the carpet fibers. A hastily patched window. Weapons scattered across the living room. And two supposed fated mates standing six feet apart with the rigid body language of strangers forced into a shared elevator.
"Open up, please. I won't ask again."
Inspector Delacroix. I know the name. DMI compliance division, the branch specifically tasked with verifying that bonded pairs are honoring the cohabitation mandate.
They have broad authority to enter, to inspect, to interrogate.
And they have the power to recommend immediate dissolution proceedings—which sounds convenient until you learn that "dissolution" in the case of a blood-magic bond means supernatural incarceration for both parties while the bureaucrats untangle the enchantment.
Ten years minimum. I did not claw my way out of the fighting pits of Lower Kragmoor to rot in a DMI holding cell because my living room looks like a crime scene.
I move fast. Two strides carry me to Targash's limp form, and I reach for the Orc by his belt and the scruff of his leather vest, hoisting the deadweight off the floor with a grunt.
The coat closet by the front door is small, barely large enough for Sabine's collection of identical beige jackets, but I fold Targash's unconscious body into the space with the ruthless efficiency of someone who has stuffed many reluctant individuals into tight spaces for transport purposes.
His legs don't quite fit. I bend his knees, shove his boots deeper, and force the door shut, hearing the latch catch with a satisfying click.
"Sabine. Come here."
"There is a man in my coat closet."
"Yes. Come here. Now."
"There is a criminal in my coat closet, and an inspector at my door, and glass in my carpet, and—"
"Listen to me carefully," I murmur into her hair, which smells like something clean and floral that I cannot identify. "We are happy mates. We are comfortable with each other. This is our home, and we are not hiding anything."
"We are hiding literally everything."
"Details." I lay my palm flat against her lower back, feeling the tremor in her spine, and bend my head lower so my lips are near her ear. "Relax your shoulders. Lean into me. Pretend I am someone you trust."
"I don't trust anyone. I'm an accountant."
Despite everything—despite the DMI inspector about to kick down the door and the unconscious bounty in the closet and the shattered glass still catching light in the carpet—I feel the corner of my mouth twitch.
This woman. This ridiculous, stubborn, terrified woman who organizes her spice rack alphabetically and makes color-coded spreadsheets for household rules and faces down every catastrophe I bring into her life with the indignant fury of someone who has been personally wronged by the universe's filing system.
"Trust me for the next twenty minutes," I say. "Then you can go back to not trusting anyone."
She takes one shuddering breath. Then another. And then, miracle of miracles, her shoulders drop half an inch and she lets some of her weight settle against me.
"Fine," she whispers. "Fine. Open the door."
I keep one arm around her as I reach for the deadbolt, arranging us so that when the door swings open, the inspector sees exactly what I want them to see.
A bonded pair, comfortable in their domesticity, the large Orc mate holding his small human partner protectively against his side, slightly annoyed at the interruption.
The inspector standing in the hallway is a Fae.
The compliance division recruits heavily from Fae populations because of their innate sensitivity to emotional resonance and magical bonds—which means faking anything in front of this woman will be exponentially harder than bluffing a human bureaucrat.
She is tall and angular, with silver-white hair pulled into a severe chignon and pale blue eyes.
She wears a charcoal suit with a DMI badge pinned precisely at the lapel, and she carries a leather-bound inspection portfolio that she holds like a weapon.
"Inspector Delacroix." I incline my head. "We weren't expecting a visit."
"That is rather the point of a surprise inspection, Mr. Ironjaw." Her gaze drops to Sabine tucked against my side, then rises to my face, then sweeps past us both into the apartment with the practiced precision of someone cataloguing every detail in a single glance. "May I come in?"
It is not a question.
"Of course." I step back, bringing Sabine with me, keeping her close.
Meatball, bless his miserable little heart, chooses this exact moment to waddle out from beneath the kitchen island and press himself against my leg with a pathetic, burbling sound that I choose to interpret as moral support.
Inspector Delacroix eyes the Snarbo with the faintest curl of distaste at the corner of her mouth but says nothing, stepping over the threshold with the careful, measured stride of someone who is accustomed to finding problems everywhere she looks.
Her gaze tracks across the living room. The temporary polymer patch over the window.
The faint scatter of glass dust in the carpet that I didn't have time to vacuum.
The dark shapes of my weapons cases stacked against the far wall.
I watch her cataloguing everything, her expression revealing nothing, and I feel Sabine's fingers tighten against my ribs.
"Interesting decor choices," Inspector Delacroix says, pulling a slim pen from her portfolio. "The window?"
"Renovation project." I don't miss a beat. "The old glass had a crack. I'm installing reinforced material. Safer for the neighborhood."
"Mm." She writes something down. Her pen moves in precise, elegant strokes. "And these?" She gestures toward the weapon cases.
"Tools of my profession. Licensed and registered with the Bounty Hunters' Guild, permit numbers available upon request."
"I'm sure they are." She finishes writing and looks up, those winter-lake eyes fixing on Sabine with unsettling intensity. "Ms. Lin. How are you finding the cohabitation arrangement?"
Sabine straightens against my side. The same transformation I witnessed at the DMI office when she switched from panicked civilian to sharp-tongued professional. "It's an adjustment, but we're managing."
"Managing." The inspector repeats the word like she's turning it over for hidden cracks. "And the sleeping arrangement? I'll need to verify that you're sharing a bed, as required by Section 14-C of the Cohabitation Mandate."
The silence that follows lasts approximately one and a half seconds, but it stretches long enough for me to feel Sabine's entire body lock up against my side like someone just ran an electric current through her spine.
I know why. I have been sleeping on her couch for the past two nights, my feet hanging over the armrest by a solid eighteen inches, my back protesting the indignity with every passing hour.
Sabine's bedroom is a sanctuary of pale pink and cream that she guards with the territorial ferocity of a dragon sitting on a hoard of decorative throw pillows. I have not set foot past the threshold.
"Of course," I say easily. "Down the hall, second door on the right. Would you like to see?"
"I would."
Sabine's fingernails dig into my ribs with enough force to leave marks, but she says nothing, just walks beside me as I guide us toward the hallway, my mind racing through logistics.
The bedroom is entirely hers. Every surface, every detail, every carefully arranged element screams single occupancy.
There is no sign that a six-and-a-half-foot Orc bounty hunter has ever set foot inside, let alone slept there, and a Fae inspector will read that absence like a flashing neon sign.
I need thirty seconds.
"The bathroom is just here, if you'd like to freshen up after the trip," I offer, gesturing toward the bathroom door as we pass it. "Long commute from the DMI compliance office in this district."
Inspector Delacroix pauses. Her gaze flicks to me, sharp and evaluating, and for a moment I think she will refuse. Then she inclines her head in a barely perceptible nod. "How thoughtful. I'll be just a moment."
The bathroom door closes, and I move.
I release Sabine and cover the distance to the bedroom in three strides, throwing the door open and scanning the space with strategic urgency.
Everything is exactly as pristine and feminine as I remember.
The bed is made with hospital-corner precision, the pale pink duvet smooth and unwrinkled, flanked by matching nightstands with matching ceramic lamps.
A single book lies on the left nightstand—a financial planning guide with a bookmark placed exactly one-third of the way through.
The closet door is closed. The dresser top holds a small tray of modest jewelry and a single framed photograph of Sabine with an older woman who shares her sharp cheekbones.
"Get your things," Sabine hisses from behind me, and I get that she has already grasped the problem and arrived at the same solution. "Go. Hurry."