I’m afraid of you. The words seem to echo in her mind, even as she tries to focus on the book in her hands. Regret sits heavy in her stomach.

  She had been able to push it away while she was at the office, preoccupied with the case, but now, on her day off, her mind is left to wander.

  She sits on the couch in the repurposed lighthouse and sighs, not for the first time, as she recalls her last words to Quinn.

  She hadn’t seen him yesterday when she left the office, but she knows her words hurt him. He hides it well, but his barely-there blink and the readiness of his reply…well, she’s always been able to see his emotions. And her words cut him deeper than he wanted to admit.

  She can only hope that her lack of skill in telling falsehoods has held true in this case. Surely he knows that her words were hyperbole at best? She trusts him with her life.

  Another pang of regret hits and the words in front of her blur together. She closes the book with a snap.

  Dominic looks over, eyebrow raised. “Everything okay?”

  She pinches the bridge of her nose, letting her head fall against the back of the couch. “Just work things.” She glances at Dominic on the opposite end of the couch, framed by the closed balcony doors.

  The air outside is heavy with heat and humidity today, and while Harvest misses the view of the ocean below, she’s grateful for the small air conditioning unit in the window. “I said something stupid yesterday,” she tells him.

  He sets down his book and shifts closer to her, hands going to her shoulders to gently massage the tension from her muscles. “I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as you think,” he says graciously.

  She hums in gratitude, shifting so that he has better access. She hadn’t realized that she was holding her tension in her shoulders until now. She’s been clenching her jaw, too, and pain thrums against her temples. “Have you and Quinn ever…well, ever had a fight?”

  He laughs, a full-throated amused bark. “Yes. Every few centuries or so. Why do you ask?”

  “The something stupid was to him.” She sighs and turns around, but hesitates before telling him the full details. “He asked me why I’ve been avoiding him.”

  “You’re avoiding him?” he asks, with a frown.

  “A little. After Christmas, at least. It was immature and stupid and by the time I came to my senses, he started avoiding me.”

  “I didn’t notice you two were avoiding each other at all.”

  “Yeah, well, normally we’d be…I don’t know, having after-work drinks or maybe even working together.”

  “I didn’t realize you two were that close.”

  There’s something in his voice that causes her to pause before she says, hesitantly, “You didn’t wonder why Quinn never hangs out long when I’m around?”

  “I guess I just thought that you were work colleagues, not really close friends.”

  She’s not sure how to say that they aren’t close friends, but something that transcends one label—that what they have is friendship and professional and something else all in one.

  Quite frankly, recognizes that she probably shouldn’t examine the depths of her feelings for another man in front of her boyfriend. So instead, she says, “I think something happened at work. He’s been short with me. Almost mean.”

  “Do you want me to talk to him?”

  “No, that’s okay. I’ll figure it out.”

  “Well,” he says, hand drifting to her waist, fingers slipping underneath her shirt to brush against the waistband of her jeans. “If you change your mind, I’ll happily defend your honor.”

  She huffs. “Thanks.”

  He smirks and kisses her, fingers still teasing the band of her jeans, slipping just below. She deepens the kiss, letting him lean her back against the couch. He trails kisses down her neck, his lips soft and warm.

  But the words—the lie—niggles at the edge of her consciousness and the tension in her shoulders returns.

  “You’re still thinking of Jules, aren’t you?” he says, his breath ghosting against her neck.

  “It was a very stupid thing to say.”

  He sits back and regards her with a look halfway between calculating and amused. “I highly doubt anything you could say would offend Jules so much he would stop being your friend.”

  “I sense there’s a story here,” she says with a smirk.

  “There are several. I once told him that I hated him and never wanted to see him again. That was last century. And a decade ago, I told him the same thing. And yet, no matter what, Jules is always there for me. I’m sure, whatever you said, he is still your friend.”

  She smiles softly at him and reaches out to place her hand on his chest. “Thank you.”

  “But…?”

  Her hand falls away. “I told him that I’m afraid of him,” she says quietly.

  “And are you?”

  “No.” She looks up sharply. “We were at a crime scene and we started arguing and I…” She shakes her head. “I said the first thing that came to my mind and immediately regretted it.”

  Dominic cocks his head to the side, a small line in between his eyebrows. “You should tell him that.” He glances at the small digital alarm clock on the bookshelf. “I have to head down to the bar. Give Julian a call. Talk to him. Come down later for a drink?”

  She nods. “Sure. See you later.”

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  He stands, leans down to press a kiss to her forehead, and then leaves.

  Quinn looks at the missed call from Harvest, then locks his phone. He dry scrubs his face and refocuses on the computer screen which currently shows a list of businesses thought to be connected to Jasper Ozias Fox, though very few of the claims have been proven. He clicks through the list, the names of LLCs and offshore bank account numbers blurring together as he loses focus, not for the first time since he’s sat down at his desk.

  He shouldn’t be here, of course. It’s a Sunday and his day off. There was a time when he wouldn’t be here, a time when he kept rigid boundaries around his time on and off the clock. His employment is a concession—he signed the contract because facing the alternative was far worse—but it was still forced and he valued his free time out of pure spite.

  But lately, without a romantic partner and really only one true friend in his life, he’s been loosening those boundaries. Working late. Coming in on the weekend.

  It beats sitting around doing nothing.

  But really, it beats sitting around thinking about Harvest.

  Fuck, he thinks, running a hand through his hair. The tense meeting with Fitz and Commissioner Rosenbloom keeps coming to the forefront of his mind. It was brash, and he’s lucky they didn’t call in Smyth to up the spell on his ring again. He stands by it, though.

  A lesser man would take Harvest’s silence since Christmas as evidence of her desire to slowly cut him out of her life, but he knows her. Her eyes give her away, every single time. He feels her gaze from across the room, he sees the lies and half-truths in her pupils when she tempers her words or when she doesn’t. And when she said she was afraid of him? The lie practically blinded him.

  She can judge him for what happened at Christmas, for the small twist of his wrists that was far too easy. She can tip-toe around him, and she can date his brother, and she can tell him that she’s afraid of him—the true him, that was created centuries ago in the dark depths of a cave. But he doesn’t believe that she doesn’t want him in her life for the simple reason that she has never told him so.

  He turns off the screen and looks down at his phone, tapping her name before he can talk himself out of it. But it goes to voicemail and with an annoyed grunt, he leaves the office to head to the Lighthouse.

  The Lighthouse is crowded. It’s Sunday afternoon and the large television screens that line the walls are showing various sports games while music blasts from the speakers hanging in the corners.

  Quinn shoulders his way through the crowd of vampires, witches, and shifters, inordinately annoyed at them all, laughing and drinking and flirting and rooting for something bigger than themselves. If he were to sit and examine the emotion, he might realize that it’s something quite like jealousy, but he doesn’t do this.

  So, it remains an annoyance, a heavy feeling in his chest as he clenches his teeth. He makes his way to the bar, flagging down Dominic. They’ve known each other for so long, he doesn’t even have to ask.

  “She’s upstairs,” Dominic says before Quinn can even open his mouth. “And Jules? Can you just apologize?”

  “How much did she tell you?”

  “Enough. She’s really beating herself up about it.”

  He nods distractedly, feeling the annoyance crackle and grow. As if he’s the one who’s punishing her. As if he’s the one who’s holding out on an apology. It all feels heavier, suddenly, the weight of the ring on his finger, Commissioner Rosenbloom and Aunt Bea’s warning, the fate of Professor Jones, which somehow feels like his fault too.

  By the time he makes his way up the stairs to Dominic’s apartment, he’s worked himself into something quite like indignation.

  Harvest answers, dressed in jean shorts and one of Dominic’s white cotton t-shirts tied at her waist. A quick flash of confusion sparks in her eyes and then she is smiling hesitantly. “Dominic is downstairs,” she begins.

  “I know. Can I come in?”

  She opens the door wider and stands back. “Is this about the case?”

  He doesn’t answer. He makes his way to the fridge and begins to move bottles around, reading the labels, only to shove them to the side.

  “It’s on the bottom shelf,” she says, assuming that he’s looking for the blood Dominic keeps stocked.

  “That’s not what I’m looking for,” he says, even though it is in fact what he is looking for. He isn’t sure why he’s so on edge at the sight of her here, looking so at ease and comfortable. Perhaps it’s a reminder that he shouldn’t be here, and not just because her aunts have declared it so.

  It’s because he’s hurt, he realizes. His feelings for her have only grown and whatever tender thing she held for him…well, it feels as if she’s tossed it in the back of the closet and forgotten about it.

  He closes the fridge door with a little too much force and the glass bottles rattle. He runs a distracted hand through his hair and then grabs a bottle of Ferro-Kina from the counter. After a second of thought, he grabs the whiskey as well and sets about making a half-hearted cocktail.

  “What are you doing?” she asks. She’s moved closer to him, arms folded across her chest.

  “Getting drunk.”

  “Vampires can’t get drunk.”

  “Doesn’t mean we can’t try, little witch.”

  “Harvest,” she says, suddenly. He looks up sharply. “My name is Harvest. Or Harvey. Or even Agent Rosenbloom. I am an adult and I am your colleague. And if you can’t respect me as a friend, then at least respect me as that.”

  He turns away, tipping his drink back in one smooth movement. He savors the liquid, letting the sharp coppery aftertaste coat his gums, spread down his chest like fire. After a beat, he turns back to her, shifts so that they are standing face to face.

  He smirks, showing a canine tooth that is just a little too long, and he’s sure his eyes are golden in the late-afternoon sun.

  He is so close, he can feel the heat coming off her body and he leans a little closer, testing the boundaries she is quickly erecting around herself. “I’m sure there’s something else I can call you. How about Strigella?” he asks softly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Can I call you that?”

  Her mouth stays firm in its scowl as her eyes rove over his face, tracking fire across his cheeks.

  Take the bait, he thinks.

  She almost does—he sees the small twitch of her mouth, hears the slight increase of her heartbeat, clocks the subtle lean of her hips forward. “I’ve already told you what you can call me. Do you need me to repeat the list?” she says, a hint of breathlessness.

  His smirk widens before falling into a straight line, and he does something that he has only done once before.

  He apologizes.

  Sincerely, even, letting whatever wall he typically has between him and the word crumble away. He shows her himself—truly, with no jokes, no charming grin. Just him. “I’m sorry.”

  Her mouth is still set in a firm line, so he says it again, a little louder as if they both don’t know what he means. “I’m sorry. It’s not—it’s nothing to do with you. I just have—”

  “It’s okay,” she says quickly, eyebrows raised. “You don’t have to explain. I just…” She takes a deep breath and starts again. “I miss you. I know I sort of disappeared after Christmas.”

  “It wasn’t easy for me,” he says. “Christmas. Rowena. I think about her often.”

  “I was hoping…” She tangles her necklace in her fingers, biting her lower lip. “I would like to talk about it.”

  They sit down on the couch and as the sun travels across the floor, dancing colors from the stained glass balcony doors casting reds and golds across their faces, he tells her about Rowena. He tells her about vampire telepathic pathways and how he could see not just into her mind, but feel her pain as his own.

  He explains that the pathway can be manipulated to send thoughts the opposite way—that Rowena had that ability and she was able to send her final request to him. He heard her agonized plea in his head as if it was his own.

  “I did ask you to leave,” he says, not unkindly.

  She takes a deep, steadying breath. “I know. I’m too stubborn for my own good, I suppose.”

  He laughs gently. “I think Rowena appreciated it. She could feel you holding her hand.”

  Her lips part with a soft exclamation, and her eyes look watery. She reaches out to squeeze his arm. After a beat, she pulls him into a hug. His hand goes to her back, fingers splayed wide in between her shoulder blades. She feels lovely in his arms, warm and perfect, her smell swirling about him.

  Still, the hug remains friendly. Chaste, even. He aches to turn it into something more—to feel that fire in her against his lips. He wouldn’t do such a thing while she’s in a relationship—but it doesn’t stop him from wanting to.