Shifter Forbidden Mate

Chapter Ten

Eira's POV

The basement of the meatpacking plant smelled like copper and old grease. The single overhead bulb flickered, casting long, jittery shadows across the concrete.

Titus’s accountant wasn’t a monster. He was a goblin named Vex, wearing a pinstripe vest that strained against his gut and half-moon spectacles perched on a warty nose. He sat behind a folding table that looked entirely too small for him, tapping a yellowed fingernail against the metal surface.

Art stepped forward and set the stasis jar down with a heavy thud. The preserved monster head floated in the murky, preserving liquid, its red eyes clouded over.

Vex leaned in, his breath wheezing. He tapped the glass. "Eye's cloudy," he croaked, his voice sounding like gravel in a blender. "Dragon took a while to bring it in, did he? Blood coagulated. Titus pays for prime, not pudding."

Draven leaned against the cinderblock wall, picking at his teeth with a thumbnail. "Tell Titus he can pay me in pudding next time. See how fast I fly."

Vex snorted, a wet, rattling sound, and pulled a heavy leather ledger from his briefcase. He slid it toward Art, along with a pen that looked suspiciously like a molted raven feather.

Art didn’t complain. He just uncapped the pen, signed his name with a slow, deliberate scratch, pressed his thumb into a nearby ink pad, and stamped the page. The heavy thud of his bear strength behind the stamp echoed in the small room.

Vex grunted in approval. He reached into a metal lockbox and counted out the cash, sliding three thick envelopes across the table. "Pleasure doing business. Try not to bleed on the stairs on your way out."

I took my envelope, the paper thick and heavy with the weight of our survival. We turned and headed for the stairs, leaving Vex to his ledger and his cloudy monster head.

We stopped at a twenty-four-hour surplus store on the edge of the district. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a harsh, sterile glare over the aisles. I pushed the cart, loading it with things I didn't strictly need, just to keep my hands busy. Canned goods. Extra wool blankets. A heavy-duty deadbolt lock.

Draven fell into step beside me, his long strides eating up the distance. He looked down into the cart, watching me stack the cans.

"That's not your usual shopping list," he said.

His tone was casual, but the words snagged on the air. I kept my eyes on the shelf, reaching for a bag of rice. "I'm stocking up."

"You're nesting," he corrected. He tilted his head, his piercing eyes tracking my movements. "Or running. it's hard to tell which one."

I put the rice in the cart. "I'm just hungry."

He didn't push it. He just reached past me, grabbing a jar of black coffee and dropping it in. But his gaze lingered on the heavy-duty lock sitting on top of the blankets. He knew I was preparing for something. He just didn't know what.

The drive back to my apartment was quiet. The rain had started again, a light mist that smeared the streetlights into long, glowing streaks across the windshield.

When we finally reached my building, I carried two of the grocery bags up the stairs. I unlocked the door and stepped inside, expecting the usual quiet emptiness of my studio.

Instead, I stopped in the hallway.

In the tiny kitchenette, Draven was holding up a small glass jar, glaring at it like it had insulted his ancestors. "What is this? It smells like wet dirt."

"It's sumac," Soren called from the couch. He was lying upside down, his head hanging off the cushions, his sandy hair brushing the floor while he read a paperback. "You put it on the meat. It's good."

"It's an insult to meat," Draven muttered, unscrewing the lid and sniffing it suspiciously.

"Leave it alone, both of you," Art said. He was at the stove, entirely ignoring them. He carefully poured boiling water into four mugs, his movements precise and unhurried.

"He's trying to poison me," Draven said to me, holding out the jar.

I stood there, my fingers tightening around the plastic grocery bags. The paper crinkled, loud in the small space.

I just watched them. Draven complaining about the spices. Soren arguing from the couch without looking up from his book. Art ignoring both of them, making sure there was enough tea for everyone.

The ache in my chest was so sharp it almost doubled me over.

This was it. This was what I wanted. This was what I had been starving for since Cassian drove me into the dirt. A place where I didn't have to flinch. A place where I belonged.

I set the grocery bags on the counter. My hands were shaking.

I had to leave.

If I stayed, if I let myself sink into this, they would die for me. Cassian wouldn't just kill me. He would s*******r Art, Soren, and Draven just for the insult of touching what he considered his property.

"Hey," Soren said, sitting up and rubbing his face. He looked at me, his sharp eyes catching the tension in my shoulders. "You okay? You look like you saw a ghost."

"I'm fine," I said. My voice sounded thin, even to my own ears. I forced a smile and turned toward the kitchenette. "Just tired."

I reached for the kettle, keeping my back to them, praying they couldn't hear the frantic, rabbit-fast beating of my heart.