The Bounty Hunter and His Phoenix Mate (Bounty Hunter Series Book 3)

Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Arden returned to her quarters, the soft glow of the fairy lights dimming as she sank into her plush beanbag chair. She let out a contented sigh, adjusting her wings comfortably behind her as she settled in to continue her conversation with Warlord. He, on the other hand, had finally reached the pack territory. He pulled his Bronco into the driveway of the townhouse he shared with Poseidon and Fury, killing the engine, but he didn't make a move to go inside.

The interior of the car was quiet, providing a rare pocket of privacy that the shared house with two other bounty hunters rarely offered.

“You’re still in the car, aren't you?” Arden asked, her voice vibrating with a knowing warmth.

“Yeah,” Warlord admitted, leaning his head back against the leather headrest. “If I go in there now, I have to deal with Poseidon asking if you’ve packed your bags yet, and Fury looking at me like I’ve won the lottery while he’s filing for bankruptcy. I want just a few more minutes of your voice without the audience.”

Arden chuckled, the sound wrapping around him. “Is that so? The big, bad bounty hunter is hiding in his driveway?”

“I’m not hiding,” Warlord grumbled playfully, though he knew she was right. “I’m strategizing. There’s a difference. If I go in now, the peace and tranquility I feel will be disturbed, and after the day I had at work, I need peace more than anything else right now.”

The conversation turned more serious as Warlord watched the sun start to set over the hillcrest of the Desert Moon territory. “I ran into Magnus today,” Arden mentioned softly, shifting in her beanbag.

“Did he say anything?” Warlord asked.

“No, he was…surprisingly supportive. In his own stiff, commander-like way. But supportive nonetheless.”

Warlord’s grip on the phone tightened slightly. “Supportive is good. It’s better than the alternative. But stay alert, Arden. I don’t like the idea of you being surrounded by people who might resent your leaving them for a wolf. Especially Douglas.”

“I know,” she replied, her voice dropping to a serious tone that matched his. “But don't worry about me, Westley. I’m a member of the Royal Guard for a reason. I can handle a bit of jealousy. As I said before, Douglas is relatively harmless. All bark, no bite.”

“Relative doesn’t mean absolute, Arden,” Warlord countered, his voice dropping into that low, protective rumble.

“I can handle Douglas. I’m stronger than him.”

“You’re still a woman, Arden,” Warlord stated.

There was a pregnant pause on the line before Arden snapped, “Geez, way to be sexist, Westley.”

“I’m not being sexist. I’m being factual,” Warlord said, doubling down with the bluntness of a man who dealt in hard data and survival. “Even if you’re more skilled, and I don’t doubt you are, men will always inherently be stronger than women, regardless of our species. It’s biology, not an insult. If he decides to stop being ‘all bark’ and plays dirty, your skill might not be enough to bridge the gap in raw, physical aggression. Especially if deep-seated hatred for my kind fuels that aggression.”

Arden sat up in her beanbag, her irritation evident. “You sound exactly like the old-fashioned council members. I’ve spent my entire life proving I’m twice as capable as the men in the Guard, and here you are, my own mate, telling me I’m at a disadvantage because of my chromosomes?”

“I’m telling you that I know how men like Douglas think,” Warlord sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose where his glasses usually sat. “They don't fight fair when they're jealous. They don't care about your rank or your skill when they're backed into a corner of their own making. I’m not doubting your power, Arden. I’m doubting his sanity.”

Arden went quiet for a moment, the irritation in her chest cooling into a dull ache of disappointment. She understood where he was coming from; his protective instinct was part of the shifter nature she appreciated and valued, but it still felt like a blow to the identity she had fought so hard to build.

"I hear what you’re saying, Westley," she said softly, her voice lacking its usual fire. "I know you're worried because you care. And I know the world isn't a fair place where the most skilled person always wins." She paused, picking at a loose thread on her beanbag chair. "But it's hard to hear you talk about it like a foregone conclusion. I’ve spent my whole life being told I’m 'lesser' or 'weaker' because I’m a woman, even while I was outperforming most of the men in my unit. I expected my mate to have a little more faith in my ability to hold my own, regardless of the biology involved."

Warlord heard the subtle withdrawal in her tone. He realized that in his effort to be the logical protector, he had accidentally stepped on the very strength he admired most about her.

"Arden—" he started, his voice thick with regret.

"No, it's fine," she interrupted, though it clearly wasn't. "You should go inside and rest. You’ve had a long day, and I need to get some sleep since I have early morning watch duties."

“Arden—” Warlord called out again, his heart sinking as he realized the distance between them had suddenly grown much wider than the miles between their states.

“Goodnight, Westley,” she said, her voice clipped and distant. Before he could get another word out, the line went dead.

“F*ck,” Warlord growled, dropping his phone into the center console. He leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes.

Horace paced in the back of his mind, whining and scratching at the sudden severing of the connection with their mate. The wolf didn't care about "biological facts”; he only knew that they had hurt her, and the silence was deafening. He had meant to protect her, but instead, he’d insulted her.

Warlord stared at the blank screen of his phone for a moment, his thumb hovering over her contact. He knew her well enough to know that a second call right now would likely be sent straight to voicemail, or worse, end in a circular argument that would leave them both miserable for the rest of the night.

He opted for a text instead, his fingers flying across the screen as he tried to bridge the gap he’d just created.

Arden stood at the threshold of the bathroom, the cool tile under her feet a sharp contrast to the heat still simmering in her chest. Her phone pinged on the nightstand—a lonely, digital heartbeat in the quiet of her quarters.

Her first instinct was to leave it. She wanted to let him sit in silence, to let him realize that his "logic" felt a lot like a lack of belief. But that stubborn pull in her chest, the one that had tied her soul to a grumpy, overprotective werewolf, wouldn't let her walk away.

She doubled back and picked up the phone. As she read the words, her grip on the phone loosened.

Westley: I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to undermine everything you’ve worked for or suggest you aren't more than capable. That was poorly worded. I have more faith in you than anyone I’ve ever met. I don't want you to get complacent because Douglas is a coward. Cowards don't fight with honor, and they’re ticking time bombs. I only say this because I care about your well-being, and I’m not there to protect you. I know you don’t need it, but as a man, it’s my duty to protect my woman if she needs me. I would go through hell and back if it means keeping you safe. I love you.

Arden sighed, the tension leaving her shoulders in a long, shaky breath. He was such a wolf. To him, protection was a math equation: A + B = Danger, and he wanted to solve it before it ever touched her. She hated the biology aspect of his argument, but she couldn't deny the sincerity in his apology.

She stared at the "I love you" for a long minute. Even if they had known one another for a little less than 24 hours, Arden knew he wasn’t just typing out empty words. To a werewolf, the love they feel for their mate is instantaneous.

She hearted the message to let him know she at least read it, and that she wasn’t angry with him. That act alone made Warlord sigh in relief on his end. Setting the phone down, she finally headed into the bathroom. She had a morning watch to prepare for.

The next week blurred into a repetitive cycle of duty and distance. For Warlord, the days were swallowed by the fluorescent hum of Dorian’s corporate headquarters. Between finalizing the audits, scrubbing the errors left by incompetent junior analysts, and avoiding Kendall like the plague, he barely had time to look up from his monitors. For Arden, life was a series of dawn patrols and evening drills under the watchful, stiff gaze of Magnus.

Despite the physical separation, their nightly calls became their much-anticipated routine. It was a brief window where the corporate jargon and military discipline that they looked forward to. However, within the walls of the fairy barracks, the atmosphere was less than harmonious.

Douglas had become a shadow of constant, low-grade hostility. Everywhere Arden went, his commentary followed like a foul scent.

“I hear the shedding season is particularly messy,” he remarked one afternoon as they crossed paths in the armory. “Hard to keep a uniform crisp when you’re living with a beast that leaves hair on everything.”

Arden didn't even break her stride as she checked the tension on her bow. On another day, it might have been a snide comment about "lupine hygiene" or how "the Moon Goddess’s standards must be slipping."

Through it all, Arden remained a pillar of icy professionalism. She paid him no mind, treating his jabs like background noise or the buzzing of a particularly annoying imp. He was entitled to his opinions, and she was entitled to ignore them. She knew that reacting would only give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d gotten under her skin. Besides, she was too busy counting down the days to care about the bitter ramblings of a man too stubborn to get with the times.

But while Douglas’s words were failing to provoke her, the desperation in his eyes was beginning to ferment into something much more volatile than mere gossip.