Shifter Forbidden Mate

Chapter Eleven

Art’s POV

Hoppe’s No. 9 solvent smells like pine and old coins. It’s a good smell. It means the guns are clean, the barrels are clear, and we’re ready for whatever walks through the door.

I sit at the tiny kitchen table, running an oiled patch through the barrel of my shotgun. The metal clicks smoothly. A steady, rhythmic sound that fills the quiet of Eira’s studio apartment.

Soren is on the mattress, an ice pack taped to his ribs. He’s scrolling through his phone, though his eyes keep drifting shut. Draven is sprawled on the floor besides him, tossing a heavy brass casing into the air and catching it.

“Three days,” Draven says, catching the casing with a sharp snap of his fingers. “Not a single green-skinned bastard in the alley. You sure we didn’t kill the whole neighborhood?”

“They’re regrouping,” I say, not looking up from the shotgun.

“You think they gave up?” Draven asks, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Now where’s the fun in that?”

“Hey, easy,” Soren murmurs from the bed. He shifts, wincing slightly before settling back. “Let’s just enjoy the quiet for a minute. My ribs are still figuring out how to breathe without screaming.”

I nod, sliding the bolt back into place. The streets have been too quiet. Usually, after we drop a body for Titus, the rival gangs push back within forty-eight hours. A retaliation hit. A slashed tire. A dead dog on the porch. But for three days, the perimeter has been dead silent.

It doesn’t mean we’re safe. It just means I can’t see the trap yet.

I set the shotgun down and look across the room.

Eira is in the kitchen. She’s wiping down the counters with a damp rag. Her movements are efficient, practiced. But she’s not just cleaning.

She pauses by the window, her hand resting on the latch. She tests it, pulling up slightly to make sure it’s locked, then pushes it down to check the seal. She moves to the front door next. She doesn’t just check the deadbolt; she presses her ear to the wood for two seconds, listening to the hallway, before turning the thumb-turn to ensure it’s fully engaged.

She walks back to the sink and opens the cabinet under it. She shifts the cleaning supplies aside, looking at the three boxes of 9mm ammunition I stacked there yesterday. She counts them. I watch her lips move silently. One, two, three.

She’s doing an inventory.

We have a job on Thursday. We don’t need to count the ammo today.

“Eira,” Soren says softly.

She jumps, her hand flying to her chest before she catches herself. She turns around, the damp rag still in her hand. “Yeah?”

“You good over there?” Soren asks. His voice is gentle, careful. “You’ve been staring at that sink for five minutes.”

“Just cleaning,” she says. She offers a small smile. It reaches her mouth, but it stops there.“I like things tidy.”

“Looks good,” Soren says. “Hey, when you’re done, come sit. Draven’s trying to teach me how to shuffle cards without dropping them.”

“In a minute,” she says.

She turns back to the sink. Soren looks at me, his brow furrowed slightly. I give him a single, subtle shake of my head. Let it be.

Soren nods and closes his eyes again.

I stand up, grabbing my jacket from the back of the chair. “I’m going to get coffee. We’re out of filters.”

“I’ll come with you,” Draven says, sitting up.

“Stay,” I tell him. “Watch the door.”

Draven’s smirk fades a fraction, and he settles back against the wall, his eyes shifting to the entrance. He knows what I’m doing. I’m giving them space.

I walk down the three flights of stairs and out into the cool evening air. The street is empty. The streetlights flicker on, casting long, orange shadows across the pavement. I walk two blocks to the bodega, buy a bag of coffee and a box of filters, and pay in cash.

The walk back is slow. I take my time, checking the sightlines, noting the empty alleyways. Still nothing. The silence is pressing down on the neighborhood, heavy and unnatural.

When I reach the building, I don’t use the buzzer. I use my key and let myself into the lobby, taking the stairs up quietly.

I unlock the apartment door, turning the knob slowly so it doesn’t click.

The apartment is quiet. Soren is asleep on the bed, his breathing deep and even. Draven is gone from his spot by the door.

I step inside, closing the door softly behind me.

That’s when I hear the faint scratching of wood against wood.

It’s coming from the bedroom.

I walk down the short hallway, my boots silent on the floor. I stop in the doorway.

Eira is kneeling on the floor near the radiator. The loose floorboard, the one that always sticks when it rains is pulled up. She’s reaching into the dark gap between the joists.

She hears my breathing and turns her head around.

Her hand freezes in the gap. There is gray dust on her fingertips. She looks like she’s been caught doing something she shouldn't. Her breathing becoming rapid.

We stare at each other. The silence between us growing, tight and fragile.

I look down at the floor. The board is shifted a quarter-inch to the left. The lockbox she keeps under the floorboard isn’t visible, but the angle of the dust on the wood tells me she was putting something inside. Or about to take something out.

She pulls her hand out of the gap and sits back on her heels. Wiping her dusty fingers on her jeans.

“Thought I heard mice,” she says.

Her voice is steady.

I don’t ask her what she was hiding. I don’t ask her why she’s counting my ammo and checking the window latches. I don’t ask her why she looks at us like she’s trying to memorize the exact shape of our faces.

Kneeling beside her, I reach out and place my hand flat on the loose floorboard. I press down, sliding it a quarter-inch to the right until it sits flush with the rest of the wood, then tap the edge with my knuckles. It doesn’t rattle.

I stand up.

I hold out the paper bag. “Got the filters,” I say.

She looks at the bag, then up at me. Her eyes are bright, searching my face for anger, for suspicion, for a demand she doesn’t know how to answer.

She finds nothing.

“Thanks,” she whispers. She takes the bag. Her fingers brush mine. They are cold.

I turn and walk back out to the kitchen. I began brewing the coffee, then set the kettle on the stove for tea. Black, no sugar. Exactly what I like.

Eira walks in a moment later and immediately steals the first cup of coffee. Draven wand in, sniffing the air, and complains that the tea leaves I bought are dry. Soren shuffles out, rubbing his eyes, and asks if we have any sugar for his cup.

I ignore all of them. I pour my tea, wrap my hands around the warm ceramic, and take it to the table.

Hours later, the sun goes down completely.

I sit on the roof, the gravel biting into my boots. The wind is cold off the river, but I don’t mind it. It keeps me awake.

Below me, through the skylight, I can see into the apartment.

The lights are on. Soren is sitting up now, eating a sandwich. Draven is leaning against the counter, gesturing wildly with a piece of bread. He says something, pointing at Soren’s nose.

Eira is sitting on the edge of the mattress. Watching the two of them.

Draven says something else. Eira throws her head back and laughs.

It’s a beautiful sound. Bright and entirely genuine. For exactly one second, her shoulders drop. Her eyes crinkle. She looks like a woman who is safe.

Then, she catches her breath. The smile vanishes, replaced by a careful, neutral mask. She looks down at her hands.

I take a slow breath, the cold air filling my lungs.

People don’t rehearse smiles unless they’re already planning goodbye.

I pull my jacket tighter around my shoulders, turn my gaze back to the dark street below, and keep watching.