“That doesn’t mean you won’t be when we get back.”
It was a possibility Sage had made clear could happen, but Jono had faith in her ability to lean into the rights accorded a god pack alpha werewolf fighting for their territory. “That won’t happen.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I’m not going to apologize for making sure the packs under our protection are safe.”
“You putting your life on the line isn’t going to do that.”
“How is that any different from what you do?” Jono shot back. “You having a sodding badge doesn’t make your choices better than mine.”
“Me having a badge complicates everything if you’re arrested. If the government starts investigating you, then it’ll start investigating me, and I won’t be able to hide the soulbond from SOA agents with a goddamn warrant giving them the authority to go digging in our souls.”
“We’d find a way around that if it happens, but since it hasn’t, it’s not an issue right now.”
Patrick laughed in his face. “If you think it won’t be, then you’re wrong.”
“What would you have had me do? You weren’t there to make the decisions with me, so I did. I’m not going to bloody apologize for the choices I made.”
“You should’ve called me,” Patrick spat out, stalking past Jono.
“Where are you going?” Jono demanded, snagging Patrick’s arm before he got very far.
“Work. You know, that thing I need my sodding badge for.” The mockery in Patrick’s voice didn’t match the angry twist of his mouth. When he tried to jerk his arm free, Jono refused to let him go. Patrick smacked his other hand against Jono’s chest, glaring up at him. “Let. Go.”
Jono didn’t listen, hating everything about this argument. “Drop your shields.”
“Fuck you. I need to get to work.”
Patrick twisted his arm to break the hold and Jono let him, unwilling to hurt him. Jono followed Patrick to the door and pressed his hand against it when Patrick tried to open it.
“You asshole,” Patrick snarled, twisting around to press both hands against Jono’s chest and push. Jono planted his feet and refused to move.
“The gods put you in too much fucking danger every time they waltz into our lives,” Jono bit out, staring into Patrick’s eyes. “You put enough on the line when they make you fight for them. I know you can compartmentalize shit, but I didn’t want you to have to.”
“You don’t get to make that choice for me.”
Those words cut through Jono like the hunter’s knife, leaving him cold. He took a breath to steady himself, leaving more of his weight against the door so Patrick couldn’t open it when the other man turned around to try again. He still couldn’t smell Patrick, but that wasn’t the only way Jono could read him.
He reached for the soulbond, the tie deeper than where Fenrir lingered in his soul. The soulbond was a warm connection that Jono let wash over him, bringing with it a twisted sense of Patrick’s emotional state. It wasn’t easy to pick any one emotion out, but something still came through. Unlike in August and the fear Jono had sensed when Patrick had gone to the Crimson Diamond, all Jono got this time was a cracked sort of pain he knew he was responsible for.
Jono knew Patrick lied to survive but that he hated being lied to by the people who mattered. More than that, he hated having choices taken from him, because so much had already been stolen from him.
Jono knew that. He did.
But he’d still hurt Patrick in the worst way—and he couldn’t take those decisions back.
“I’m sorry,” Jono said thickly as he pulled his hand away from the door and tried to get Patrick to turn around and look at him. “You’re right. I should’ve rang you about the hunters, but I still would’ve gone to Lucien.”
Patrick shook him off, gripping the door handle with one hand even as he half turned to look Jono in the eye. “Even if I told you not to?”
Jono gave a slow nod, knowing he couldn’t lie here. “We need more than what we have for this fight. You know that, and you have to know you’re so bloody wrong about me not trusting you, Pat. Because I do. I always will.”
“You have a real fucking funny way of showing it.”
“I was just trying to keep you safe.”
Patrick let out a hollow laugh. “Do you know who I saw in the cemetery last night? Hannah. News flash, Jono. I’m never safe.”
Patrick yanked open the door, and Jono hooked an arm around his waist to haul him away from it. The door closed on its own, and Jono ignored Patrick’s elbow digging into his side and the swearing in order to push him up against the wall and frame his face with both hands.
“Did she hurt you?” Jono asked in a low, furious voice. Anger and fear made Jono nauseous at the thought of Patrick facing his family alone. Because the thought of losing Patrick was a nightmare Jono never wanted to know.
Patrick’s words, when he spoke, were like poison, flaying Jono worse than silver and aconite ever could. “I don’t know.”
The blankness of Patrick’s expression was a mask Jono hated to see. It left Jono gutted, and he raised a hand to cup Patrick’s face, but his hand was knocked aside.
“Don’t,” Patrick snapped.
“I’m sorry,” Jono said, at a loss for words and not wanting to argue if it meant Patrick would stay. “Just don’t go. Please.”
Jono leaned down and kissed Patrick with a fierceness that made their teeth clack together. Patrick let him, didn’t pull away, hesitating only a second before kissing him back with the same intensity.
“I’m sorry,” Jono breathed out like a litany of prayers between kisses. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”
“But you aren’t sorry for not calling me.”
Jono slid his hands down Patrick’s body to grab his arse and pull him into his arms, nipping at his bottom lip. “Already said I was.”
“Not about Lucien,” Patrick said, kissing him back.
Jono carried him back to the bed that didn’t have his duffel bag on it. Housekeeping must have been by, because it’d been made up and the rubbish everywhere taken away. “I’ll make it up to you.”
He dropped Patrick onto the bed, following him down, chasing after his mouth. Patrick’s arms wrapped around his neck to hold him there, trying to breathe with the help of Jono’s lungs. The soulbond hummed between them, stronger than it had been when they’d had so much distance between them.
He rolled his hips, dragging his clothed cock against Patrick’s. They both groaned, and Patrick tore his mouth free, throwing his head back, giving Jono room to kiss his throat. Patrick’s shields had been taken down, and Jono could finally breathe in the strangely bitter scent that meant home to him.
“Didn’t pack lube,” Patrick groaned when Jono worked a hand under his arse to lift him into the roll of Jono’s hips again.
“I did,” Jono muttered against his skin. Patrick grabbed his hair and gave it a good yank, the quick sting in Jono’s scalp making him smile.
“Then fucking go get it.”
Letting Patrick go took effort, and Jono didn’t manage to get off the bed for another minute. Patrick’s mouth and his scent were too enticing, but he finally made it to his duffel bag. Jono found the lube in thirty seconds, which was about the same amount of time it took Patrick to remove his combat boots, dagger, and pistol. The boots stayed on the floor while the weapons were put on the desk.
Jono stole a kiss on his way to the window to shut the curtains. Not that anyone would be able to see in through the heavily falling snow, but he wasn’t willing to put Patrick on display for anyone. He turned back to the bed, stripping out of his shirt and tossing it on the floor. His jeans and underwear followed seconds later. Patrick was down to his underwear, which Jono helped pull off before kneeling down to suck the tip of Patrick’s cock into his mouth.
Patrick’s hips jerked upward, and Jono pressed him back down onto the bed with one firm hand. He swallowed Patrick down to the
root, dragging his tongue over sensitive skin. Fingers tangled in his hair, pulling again as Patrick tried to strain upward, his heels digging into Jono’s back.
“Fuck. Fuck,” Patrick bit out, his entire body tense.
Jono pulled off, turning his head to bite gently at Patrick’s inner left thigh before straightening up. He pulled Patrick’s legs off his shoulders and crawled over him, hauling Patrick with him farther up the bed. Patrick distracted him by biting one nipple and scraping blunt fingernails over the other.
“Bloody tease,” Jono grunted.
“Fuck you. I’m not the one who needs to apologize.”
Jono uncapped the lube and poured it over his fingers. He leaned down and kissed Patrick to shut him up. He pushed Patrick’s knee to the side, opening him up so Jono could push a finger inside him. He didn’t go slow, knowing that’s not what Patrick wanted right now. Jono still got undertones of anger in Patrick’s scent, and taking his time as an apology wasn’t going to be welcomed here.
Jono dragged his teeth over Patrick’s jaw and down his throat. He traced scar tissue with his tongue as he pushed a second finger into Patrick. “Didn’t mean to keep you out of the loop. I just wanted to keep you safe.”
“You think I like finding out you could’ve died and I wouldn’t have been there?” Patrick asked, his voice cracking slightly.
Jono curled his fingers and rubbed them against Patrick’s prostate. Patrick arched against him, groaning loudly, so Jono increased the pressure. Fingers hooked over Jono’s chin and tugged in a demanding way. He lifted his head, meeting Patrick’s gaze without blinking. “Next time, I’ll call.”
“You better. I’m the one who makes stupid promises, not you, remember?”
“Rather you didn’t.”
“Shut up. You don’t have any room to talk right now.”
Jono pulled his fingers out and reached for the lube again, slicking up his cock. When Patrick reached for him, Jono grabbed his hands and pulled them over his head. Jono wrapped his hand around Patrick’s wrists, pinning him to the bed. When he met Patrick’s eyes, most of the green was gone, swallowed by black pupils. Jono kissed him because he could, because he never wanted to know what it would be like to watch Patrick walk out the door and leave him behind.
Jono dug his knees into the bed as he guided his cock to Patrick’s hole, pushing into that tight heat with tiny rolls of his hips. Patrick’s legs wrapped around his waist, and he swallowed loudly as Jono sank all the way in, his cock jerking between them. Jono flexed his fingers around Patrick’s wrists, keeping him pinned as he pulled out and snapped his hips forward. The hard thrust drew a moan from Patrick that made Jono smile and do it again and again.
Jono didn’t go slow, and he wasn’t gentle, holding Patrick down with firm hands while he fucked him hard. Every moan, every hitched breath that escaped Patrick’s mouth spurred Jono on. He didn’t stop until Patrick came with a shout, Jono’s name on his lips as he shuddered through his orgasm. Jono dug his knees into the bed as he chased his own release, grinding his cock into Patrick until he came with a harsh groan.
Patrick’s eyes were closed, his fingers fisted tight over his head. Jono let his wrists go, the skin there red from pressure, but not bruises. Patrick blinked his eyes open when Jono touched his cheek with gentle fingers.
“We’re in this together, and I’m always going to trust you. That’s never going to change, love,” Jono said quietly before pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of Patrick’s mouth.
Patrick turned his head, catching Jono’s mouth with his, kissing so sweetly that it felt like an apology when he had nothing to apologize for. Jono gently pulled out of him before getting them underneath the blankets. Jono wrapped his arms around Patrick, holding him close, refusing to let him go.
Patrick stroked calloused fingers over Jono’s hips. “Where were you hurt?”
Jono shifted, grabbing Patrick’s hand to place it over the spot on his ribs that was healed up now. “Didn’t go deep.”
“A silver knife laced with aconite doesn’t need to go deep.”
“Bloke is dead and the demon is gone.”
Patrick rested his forehead against Jono’s chest. “Demons are never gone.”
Before Jono could reply, the hotel room door opened. He twisted a little on the bed to look over his shoulder as Wade walked in, one hand over his eyes and a bottle of air freshener probably stolen from housekeeping in the other.
“You better be decent,” Wade warned.
“Decent enough,” Patrick muttered.
Wade parted his fingers and cracked open one eye. Then he scowled and started to aggressively spray the air freshener. “That’s my bed you’re in. The other one was yours.”
“We can switch.”
“No. You can get me my own room.”
Patrick lifted his head and squinted at Wade. “Did you steal that?”
Wade stood at the foot of the bed they were in and sprayed the blankets on every word he spoke. “My. Own. Room.”
Jono’s eyes watered and he sneezed. “I’ll pay for it. Get out so we can get dressed.”
Wade sprayed the bed one more time before leaving, grumbling under his breath. Patrick sighed and pressed his forehead against Jono’s chest again. “I have a meeting I need to get to.”
“Okay.”
“I’m still mad.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you.”
Patrick shifted in his arms and kissed him on the mouth before getting up and heading for the bathroom. “Make it up to me in bed like that and maybe I’ll forgive you, or you can sleep on the couch when we get home.”
Jono would make it up to him every night if that’s what it took.
14
“I thought the Chicago PCB had the case?” Patrick asked, staring through the doorway at the woman seated in the interview room on the fifth floor of the SOA field office.
“They did, but since the Sigfodrs are people of interest to our investigation into Westberg, the SOA took it over,” Benjamin said.
Patrick took a sip of his coffee, the Starbucks deep roast a far cry better than the office brew Benjamin had. “I bet that’s going to cause some friction.”
“It always does.”
“Who’s interviewing her?”
Benjamin slapped Patrick on the shoulder, giving him a mean smile. “You are. We were waiting for you to get back from your nice little break.”
Patrick gave him a sidelong look. “I was up for over twenty-four hours and got into a fight with Dominion Sect mercenaries.”
“And that’s why you got a break, but now it’s time to work.”
Patrick shook his head and took another sip of coffee. He mentally steeled himself before entering the interview room. He closed the door behind him but didn’t lock it. The room had no windows and no cameras, giving them a false sense of privacy. Patrick didn’t make the mistake of calling the goddess by the name people knew her by in myths.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Sigfodr,” Patrick said.
Frigg watched him take a seat with those unearthly eyes of hers. They were red-rimmed from crying, but her makeup looked perfect. Patrick wasn’t sure if it was a show for the authorities or if she really had been crying over Odin. Immortal relationships were complicated, and Patrick didn’t understand them at all.
“There is nothing good about today,” Frigg said.
Patrick sat down at the small table across from her. He placed his coffee in front of him before discreetly writing out a silence ward under the table, letting static wash through the walls. “How are you holding up?”
“How do you think?” Frigg asked tightly. “The Dominion Sect has my husband.”
“Yeah, I know. I tried to warn him.”
“It is not your fault.”
“It’s not yours either.”
“I was speaking to the kitchen staff when he was taken. If I was there—”
“If you were there, you’d have been taken as well.” P
atrick shook his head. “You think Ethan wouldn’t love to have you both? The more gods he can tie to a sacrificial spell, the better. Ethan’s people did a snatch and grab and got the fuck out of Dodge because that was the only way to get to Odin.”
“They should not have been able to contain him.”
“You guys might be taking tithes from politicians, and Thor might be accepting prayers as payment for his mead, but it’s nothing how it was in the past for you. That doesn’t give you power. It barely makes you something to remember. Ethan has Macaria and he’s got the entire Dominion Sect praying for him.”
Frigg folded her hands together on the table. “He is no god.”
“He’s trying to become one. He’s gotten close twice. Now he has Odin and is after the Morrígan’s staff, which might very well be in Chicago. I can’t see why they’d be here if it wasn’t.”
“It is not here.”
Patrick wasn’t sure if Frigg was speaking the truth, but he hoped she was. Dealing with a missing god needed to take priority right now. “What does it do?”
“Perhaps you should ask the goddess it belongs to.”
“Or you could just tell me now. Odin’s ravens were the ones who told me the staff was missing last year. You have to know something, even if it’s not part of your pantheon. Ethan is only after two things these days. Godheads I understand, but this one particular artifact is different. Why?”
“Do you know what war is like?” Frigg asked.
“I’ve fought a war. I know exactly what it’s like.”
“I live with war, and I love him despite the suffering he brings.” Frigg blinked, eyes flashing with power that made Patrick flinch. “You are asking the wrong question.”
“Then what is the right one?” Patrick wanted to know, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice even as he kept a neutral expression on his face. They still had an audience on the other side of the glass window.
“What kind of god does Ethan want to be?” Frigg unfolded her hands and turned them over one at a time, palms to the ceiling. “He has Macaria’s godhead, a child of one hell. He seeks the Morrígan’s staff, a war goddess’ weapon that raises the dead. An empty hell is a useless kingdom without followers. How many wars has Midgard seen? How many bones are buried in her dirt? How many restless souls do you think are out there? He who claims the dead can wage war on the living. You cannot become a god without first building your own myth, and to do that, you need the proper tools.”
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