Chapter 19
The story of Hugh’s twin sister dampened any lingering good cheer that might have remained after Josiah’s terrible phone call. Rather than commencing a leisurely make-out session, as Gwen would have preferred, they instead hashed out where to go next.
Not to his apartment. That much was now clear.
Even if their personal possessions had survived the blaze intact, even if the premises were no longer a restricted area for investigation, even if the space remained structurally sound and safe to visit, the rumored accusations against Hugh meant he might be removed from the premises and forcibly brought to SERC headquarters for interrogation.
Once officially summoned by SERC, he intended to answer the call and defend himself—but on his own time and of his own volition and only after ensuring Gwen’s safety. And since they also wanted to avoid making her whereabouts publicly known…
They weren’t in hiding, per se. But they weren’t not hiding either.
Under those circumstances, there was only one obvious place to go next: Max’s lair. It might not feature an official guest room, but it was basically an underground fortress, and not even SERC officials knew its location.
One quick phone call to the grumpy-sounding vampire later, Gwen and Hugh were headed back toward the Containment Zone.
To their mutual relief, Hugh’s ID card still worked at the Zone entry gate.
The guards stationed there didn’t descend on the car and seize him.
And less than an hour later, Gwen was happily ensconced in Max’s über-modern kitchen, eating her body weight in gourmet cheese at his ginormous island.
After greeting his guests with mingled irritation and old-world graciousness, their host had reminded them that he didn’t have a guest room, so they’d need to stay in the only available semiprivate space containing a makeshift bed.
Then he’d deposited a stack of clean linens and one of Edie’s spare nightshirts on his library’s couch and promptly returned to his bedroom to cluck over his girlfriend.
Hugh sat on the stool next to Gwen’s in the kitchen, bent over their borrowed tablet as he worked on…
something. Probably checking with his various contacts about the conspiracy and getting the latest information about the fire.
The entire home was blessedly quiet. Warm and safe, freshly showered, her stomach full, Gwen polished off one last sliver of membrillo-topped aged Gouda and slumped over the white marble countertop, contemplating a nap.
Hugh tapped the screen one last time. “There. Your antinausea amulet and healing spell should arrive later today. The witch who created them is a trusted supplier, and I’m having the items delivered through unconventional means to preserve our privacy.”
He’d been sourcing medical assistance for her instead of doing his actual work? And gods and goddesses above, how much had his selected items cost?
Overcome by guilt and anxiety—and possibly by the volume of all that glorious cheese in her belly—she propped her elbows on the table, covered her face with her hands, and groaned.
“Gwen?” His stool screeched, and a hot, gentle hand clasped her arm. “Are you well? Is your head hurting again?”
“No, I—” she began.
“I was worried that preeclampsia might be causing some of your headaches, so I did some quick research. As it turns out, you’re not far enough along in your pregnancy for that.
” His lips rested against the crown of her head for a brief, sweet moment.
“You’ll still require particular care and a great deal of rest, however. Especially since you’re…”
He hesitated.
“Go ahead and say it.” Her sigh hurt her chest. “I’m what?”
“Well…” His hand cupped her nape and gave it a comforting squeeze. “The official designation is ‘a pregnant person of advanced maternal age.’ ”
She groaned again, and his thumb stroked her neck in a soothing arc.
“At least it’s better than the term they used to use,” he offered helpfully. “That was even more insulting.”
Morbid curiosity compelled her to ask. “What was it?”
“Well…” He seemed to realize his mistake then, but it was too late. “Um…‘geriatric pregnancy.’ ”
Motherfucker. Now utterly dispirited, she let her elbows slide out to the sides so that her hands-covered face rested directly on the island.
“Is your head hurting that much?” The warm sympathy in his question almost salved her bruised ego. Almost. “I can go out to get a healing spell now, Gwen, if you need one.”
She rubbed her tired eyes. “My head’s not hurting. I’m just very unhappy about all the time and money you’re spending on my care and unsure if I can pay you back without entirely bankrupting myself. That’s assuming you’ll let me pay you back, which you probably won’t.”
“Correct.” His hand stroked over her hair and down her braid in a tender, affectionate gesture. “I’m glad we’re in agreement on that.”
“I’m also worried about our current situation. Annoyingly fatigued too.” She scowled into the dark privacy of her hands. “Not to mention geriatric.”
“I see,” he said, his tone cautious.
As his long fingers carded through the ragged ends of her braid, they brushed against her back. Each tiny touch was a small island of heat and pleasure, sending ripples outward.
When her breath hitched, his fingers stilled.
“I’m sorry.” A brief silence. “If it’s any consolation, my day has been terrible too. I’ve spent most of it terrified for your well-being, and I’d really like to hold you. Would that be acceptable?”
She was already pushing her stool back from the island. “More than acceptable. Welcome.”
“Where are you—” His brow cleared. “Apparently we’re moving to the couch.”
“Apparently we are,” she said, and essentially dove headfirst into its slightly-too-firm cushions, because he might want to hold her, but she needed to be held.
As soon as he sat beside her and opened his arms, she flung herself into his embrace with a shuddering sigh of relief.
He was so blessedly warm, his long, narrow hands so blessedly tender as they stroked down the length of her braid again and cradled the back of her head.
She pressed her face into his neck, greedily inhaling his smoky, woodsy scent.
His bearded chin nestled into the hair at her crown, and at the easing of so much terrible tension, both of them slumped into the sofa. Into each other.
“If you hadn’t escaped the fire, I don’t like to imagine what I would have done, Gwen,” he whispered. “Probably proved my colleagues right. Become another Blacke twin lost to violent rage.”
She stilled in his arms, shocked. Did he really care about her that much?
“You’re safe now, though, and I intend to keep you that way.
” His pulse faintly throbbed against her mouth, and she resisted a growing desire to lick him there.
“I started researching prenatal classes, incidentally. People don’t usually attend those until about thirty weeks or so, but it’s good to be prepared. Do you have a birth plan in place?”
“Uh…” Successfully distracted from licking-related urges, Gwen blinked into his neck. “No. Not yet.”
“We can work on that later if you’d like. I’ve also begun compiling a list of baby supplies that are top rated for safety and reliability. When you get a chance, you can check them over yourself.”
Just how much research had he been doing while she’d eaten her cheese? Holy crap.
“Um…thank you?” She searched for the right words, loath to discourage his very sweet efforts but also entirely unready to make those sorts of decisions amid a possible apocalypse. “Perhaps we should wait a few—”
His new burner phone rang atop the kitchen island. Once, then a second time.
“Only a very limited circle of contacts has access to that number.” Hugh exhaled heavily. “I’d better pick up.”
He kissed the top of her head again, then gently set her aside and rose to take the call.
“Sabrina?” A long pause. “Yes. Let me get Gwen on the line. Hold on.”
He brought the phone over to the couch and put it on speaker as he sat again.
“Is everything okay, Sabby?” Gwen leaned in closer to the microphone. “Do you need help with Starla?”
“Thanks, Gwen, but we’re fine. Star just needs time to recover from all the crap that happened this week. Hopefully before the next wave of crap hits.” The witch’s voice was gravelly with exhaustion. “How are you doing? I heard about the fire, and I got worried.”
“I’m good,” Gwen told her. “Hugh brought me to the hospital, where I got a clean bill of health. So did the baby, for that matter.”
“He found out, huh?” Sabby sounded intrigued but quickly got back on track.
“If you’re okay, then let me cut to the chase: A few minutes ago, I got a call from a witch friend who wants to remain anonymous.
According to her, she supplied and set a soundproofing spell earlier today for an unfamiliar demon who claimed to be Councilor Blacke’s friend.
Because Blacke was busy at work, the friend had offered to procure the spell on the councilor’s behalf and oversee its immediate installation. ”
Well, that confirmed Hugh’s earlier speculation about the pop Gwen had experienced upon leaving the apartment.
“Your witch friend didn’t question the demon’s story?” Hugh sounded thoughtful rather than accusing. “Even though there was no direct confirmation from me, the actual homeowner?”
“Since setting the spell required bypassing various security measures to access the apartment’s interior, and the demon performed those bypasses without hesitation, she believed you’d given him permission.
Also, I think she was somewhat overawed by the request to assist such a famous, powerful leader in the SERC community and didn’t want to second-guess her good fortune. ”
Sabby very clearly would not have shared her friend’s wonder and gratitude.