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“He pretends not to care about anyone. It’s exhausting to watch.”

“Sounds familiar.”

Mack ignored that. “I’ll talk to him. Quietly.”

“And we keep blood here, at Logan’s apartment, and at the bar. If the curse attacks his ability to feed or move, we don’t want his survival dependent upon somebody reaching a store.”

He nodded, already pulling equipment from the cabinet. “I’ll put a passive monitor near his building. Nothing invasive. It’ll alert us if the magical energy around him spikes. It won’t tell us how he’s feeling or catch every slow change in a curse that’s already there. We’ll still need to check on him ourselves.”

“Does Logan get to know you’re monitoring him?”

Mack grunted.

“That was not an optional question.”

“I’ll tell him.”

“Before or after I threaten to relocate your testicles?”

“Before.”

“Look at you, embracing communication.”

For the next hour, we turned the workbench into a disaster-preparedness station. Mack dismantled the containment case and rebuilt half the internal wards. I inventoried medical supplies and added everything from blood bags to a portable defibrillator, mostly because supernatural biology had long ago taught me that the correct response to “Will this work?” was “Probably not, but bring it anyway.”

By the time we finished, two black cases sat beneath the workbench. One held Mack’s modified containment equipment. The other held my medical supplies, several emergency blood bags, and enough gauze to mummify a minotaur.

Mack hooked one boot around a low mechanic’s stool and dragged it closer. He sat, then reached for me. I stepped between his knees, and his arms closed around my waist as some of the tension finally left his body.

“This could put you in danger,” he murmured, resting his forehead against my stomach.

“So could loving you.”

His grip tightened. “I would never hurt you.”

“I know.” I threaded my fingers through his hair. “But loving you means your enemies know my name. It means the supernatural world occasionally crashes through our front door. It means I have accepted that my emergency contacts should include a witch, a locksmith, and someone capable of removing blood from antique flooring.”

“You hate that rug.”

“I still don’t want entrails on it.”

His laugh warmed me through. He turned his face into my shirt and breathed me in until the bear settled.

“I won’t let Jacqueline hurt you,” he said.

“And I won’t let your fear make my decisions.”

He tipped his head back and met my eyes. The argument was familiar. So was the reluctant acceptance that followed it.

“Bossy human.”

“Overprotective bear.”

“You like it.”

“Occasionally.”

I bent and kissed him. His hands moved up my back, drawing me closer, and for a moment the garage, the curse, and Jacqueline Fortman ceased to matter.