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Marek, or whoever owned the bar, had apparently splurged on air-conditioning, which Patrick silently appreciated.
One thing about Patrick? He’s gonna get his AC
The third was a man Patrick couldn’t bring himself to look away from, desire uncoiling in his gut with a sudden spike of heat.
I’m the federal agent with a weapon. Unless you want me to shoot through you at a threat, get in the fucking back seat.”
You could take a soldier out of war, but you couldn’t take the war out of the soldier.
“You nearly got your head blown off by that fucker and you didn’t even fight him. You and your suicidal tendencies can sod off with me letting you go,” Jono retorted.
“Fuck those gods.”
“Is it too late to eat my gun?” Patrick asked no one in particular. Nadine kicked him in the ankle. “Have you been talking to your therapist?” “Have you?” “Bloody hell,” Jono muttered under his breath.
“And me,” Marek piped up. “No” came a chorus of voices around the table.
Then Jono kissed him, his words a vow that could’ve been binding if Patrick had any magic left to make it so.
“I have you,” Persephone whispered into his ear in the ethereal space of the veil. Which was true, in every way that mattered. The Greek goddess and queen of the Underworld owned his soul debt, after all.
If there was one lesson Jono had learned on the streets of London as a child that had followed him through the years, it was this: you didn’t get to keep the things you wouldn’t fight for.
“Seriously?” Patrick asked. “You’re a bike messenger when you’re not annoying the fuck out of me?”
“I’ll be your weapon if you’ll be my pack,” Jono whispered against his lips, echoing Patrick’s thoughts.
normal was relative, and you lived every day one day at a time.
A weapon, no matter its shape, is still a weapon. So use it.
“My stress levels when you were on my team say otherwise. Now answer my question.”
Pack, Jono thought as Patrick reached for him, drawing him down into a lingering kiss. Home.
