The lip-print was a bruised purple now, the color slowly leaching away, but thankfully not into the surrounding flesh. I held very still, watching the skylight Golden sunshine filled my eyes, safe warm light.

"Does it hurt?"

"Burns sometimes." I settled my naked hips, my salt-touched shoulders. "But it's okay. It just looks funny." And I had to be careful, having a hellbreed-strong fist was… interesting, to say the least. I was still getting used to it.

"Eh." He let go of my wrist, one finger at a time, and settled down next to me. Then came my favorite part, his arm over me, and we cuddled together. The feeling of safety returned, palpable enough to set a lump in my throat. "Woman always has edge in bargain like this, little snake. You remember that when old Mischa is gone."

The lump got bigger. "You're not going anywhere, Mik. You're too nasty."

He pinched my arm, but gently, and I giggled. It was a little-girl sound, a laugh I only heard here in the bedroom with the silkscreened Japanese scrolls on the walls. Only in Mikhail's arms.

"Someday, milaya. It comes for us all. But we have a choice of how to meet it."

This one I knew. "Head high," I said.

"Guns out," he answered. "Good, little snake. Now rest. Night soon, time to work."

It came sooner than either of us thought, but after that day we never spoke of it again. I fell asleep easily in his arms, but I don't know if Mikhail slept. I rarely saw him relax, and he was always awake when I dropped off, and awake again when I surfaced.

Of all the men I ever knew, all the men whose bodies pressed over or into mine, he was the only one I ever felt safe with. He was also the only one who held me in the middle of the day when I woke crying from nightmares I remembered all too clearly.

More and more, the longer I go without him, the more I wish I could have seen him sleeping.

Of all the things I expected to smell, frying bacon was the very last.

My head boiled with pain. I groaned, turned over, and buried my face in my pillow, which smelled different. Like… fabric softener?

It was fabric softener. I didn't use frocking fabric softener. I had a hard enough time running the damn washing machine without frou-frous like that.

What the hell? I lay very still, my awareness suddenly dilating. The last thing I remembered was falling headlong off the high drop into the crush of people struggling to find some way up the almost-vertical slope. I dimly remembered Montaigne yelling, and Harp's voice, thin but determined.

Sleep beckoned, warm and wide and full of welcome oblivion.

It was no use. I couldn't crawl back into unconsciousness. I had too much to do.

I rolled slowly, lethargically, onto my back. Blinked at the angle of sunlight. It was all wrong—low and gray, with the peculiar translucence that meant morning. How long had I been out?

What had happened out there on the streets while I'd been out? How was Harp?

I pushed myself painfully up to my elbows. My belly was tender, as if I'd taken one hell of a sucker-punch. My scalp itched and smarted too. But that wasn't what surprised me the most.

I was on my mattress in the middle of my bedroom, but the sheets were on the bed instead of tangled and wrecked, clean and smelling freshly washed. The messy pile of blankets had been washed too and the bed, despite my usual thrashing, had obviously been neatly made. The blinds had been dusted, and the hardwood floor looked suspiciously shiny. On top of that, the maddening smell of bacon in the air was joined by the smell of coffee brewing.

What the flying fuck?

I was in a battered extra-large Santa Luz Warriors T-shirt, again, not usual. There was no knife under my pillow, but one of my guns lay on the milk-crate next to my bed, which now sported a red bandanna as covering and a lamp I'd been meaning to fix.

I grabbed the gun, then touched the lamp. It flicked on, warm electric light flooding my suddenly strange bedroom.

It looked like the floor had been waxed or something, for God's sake.

Hello, Toto? Are we still in Kansas?

I slid my feet out of my warm nest. They met cold hardwood, I rocked up to my feet—and collapsed back down again, my head pounding and my muscles rebelling. I'd run myself into the ground. I'd need food to get back up, something to digest so I could fuel my body's now-unnatural ability to heal.

I heard footsteps, deliberately loud, and raised the gun. It pays to be cautious. The warehouse echoed, and my heart thudded in my ears. Copper lay against my palate, the taste of fear.

Saul Dustcircle appeared in my bedroom door. He was barefoot, in jeans and the same black T-shirt. His hair was pulled back from his face with two small braids on either side, the rest of it loose against his shoulders. His dark eyes passed over me once, not pausing at the gun.

He carried, of all things, a plastic tray I used for holding bullets while I refilled clips, so they didn't roll around. Steam rose from it, and I smelled coffee and maple syrup.

If that wasn't enough, the first thing he said was utterly confusing, too.

"Breakfast." His voice was neutral enough. "And an apology."

I'll admit it. I goggled at him, my jaw dropping but the gun remaining steady.

"I was rude to you. I shouldn't have been; my mother raised me better. I was just tired and frustrated. We've been chasing this bastard a long time, and he keeps slipping through my fingers." His mouth turned down at both corners, bitterly, but his eyes still held mine. "You're a hunter, and a good friend to Weres. I apologize."

I still stared, my jaw suspiciously loose. Of all the things I've heard in my life, a Were apology is high on the "real seldom" list. They don't often say the words out loud.

But when they do, they mean them.

He watched me for another few moments before one corner of his mouth quirked. His eyebrow raised.

"Truce?" He indicated the tray, lifting it slightly, and I set the gun down on the milk crate with a click, suddenly ashamed of myself.

"Jesus." My voice cracked. "How long have I been out? How's Harp?"

"Thirty-six hours or so. Harp's fine, she and Dominic just left to meet with some of the Norte Luz lionesses. Captain Montaigne called to make sure you were all right, and some guy named Avery called twice and left messages for you. Something about missing a beer date." He approached with the tray. "You need to eat first. You passed out from blood loss and exhaustion, and you look like you've been pushing yourself lately. If you go killcrazy it won't help us."

Only Weres go killcrazy. On us hunters it's called suicidal I swallowed the words. Harp was okay. Thank God.

The tray held a plate of buckwheat pancakes, buttered and drenched in syrup, toast with strawberry jam, a mound of scrambled eggs, and six strips of bacon. There was a huge glass of orange juice, and a coffee cup that smelled absurdly good. Not to mention the mint sprig to garnish everything, and the decoratively cut strawberry fanned out in thin slices.

"Holy Christ." I managed to sound horrified. "Where did you—"

"Harp and I went shopping. You had nothing but ketchup and some green lump I think was achieving sentience in your fridge. I figured the least I could do was clean up a bit around here and make you something to eat—I don't know how you like your eggs, so I scrambled them. Come on, it won't stay hot forever. Scoot back."

He even fluffed the goddamn pillows and settled the tray across my knees. Then he turned around, without so much as another word, and left the room with a long loping stride.

I stared down at the food. Wow. Most Weres, especially the males, are pretty domestic. It was a peace offering instead of a violation for him to clean up my house, since he wouldn't understand much about personal property—again, being Were. And the food… if I didn't trust the verbal apology, the food would have convinced me.