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“I’m a hunter now, Colton.” I took another sip of my coffee. “And whatever else heals from mortal wounds and kills demons. But I’m a hunter. That’s my life.”

He stared at me for a long time before nodding slowly. Then he left.

One could only hope he had the strength to recover from everything.

And look at me, hoping. Even though I knew better.

twenty-four

“You’re brave,” I greeted Dante as he perched next to me.

“Figured even you wouldn’t shoot me in the head with a bar full of witnesses,” Dante replied cheerfully.

“Deputy Chief—and the chief, for that matter—owe me favors, so I wouldn’t be so sure.” I clasped my untouched whiskey glass.

I’d gone there because I hadn’t known what else to do. The house was empty, quiet, maddening. There were no more monsters to hunt.

So I’d made the decision not to run away from my problems. Instead, I went to a bar—to drink them away.

But I couldn’t even muster the strength to do that. And you knew shit was bad if I couldn’t drink my way through it.

“Beer, IPA if you have it,” Dante spoke to the bartender.

“IPA?” My lip curled back in repulsion. “Want to get yourself an ironic bow tie and grow a beard too?”

Dante smirked. “Hipsters do two things right—coffee and beer. I’m not ashamed of enjoying either.”

I rolled my eyes, tapping my fingers to the beat of the shitty country song some asshole had put on the jukebox.

Dante was not off my shit list. Not by a long shot. But I couldn’t do much about it in a bar. And if I did, letting myself feel the full depth of my anger, I couldn’t be sure I wouldn’t bring this whole place down with me.

So I stewed in silence. It was actually working well until my gaze wandered in his direction.

“Holy shit. Your hands.” My eyes widened in horror.

Without thinking, I grasped his wrists, yanking them closer to me so I could get a closer look.

Dante and I looked down at his palms. A layer of skin was gone. They looked as if he’d held them to a flame. There were a few bandages on what must’ve been more severe burns, but the rest were open to the elements.

What in the hell had Dante been up to? Were there more monsters skulking around there that I’d somehow missed?

Then I remembered… his hands on my hips. My body, aglow, on fire. The grunt of pain that I’d ignored because I was too busy being pissed off and filling myself with “divine” power.

The angry red burns that were gruesome and would eventually scar were from me, from him holding on to me as I got close to “burning out.” He hadn’t shown that he was in an ounce of pain. This looked like more than a fucking ounce.

“Seeking an excuse to hold my hands, Harris?” Dante drawled. “Because if you are, all you have to do is ask.”

I dropped his wrists with a scowl, turning back to my untouched whiskey.

When Dante took his beer without so much as a wince, I told myself I didn’t feel bad. He’d had worse in his career.

From monsters. He’d had worse from monsters.

Which I was. At least half of me.

"Don’t expect an apology,” I shot at him. “That is the least you deserve.”

“Wasn’t asking for one.” He was unbothered. Chill. Relaxed. Worse still, something in me unwound in his presence. At the soft leather jacket brushing my exposed arm. The warmth of his presence, the scent of spice and cinnamon wafting from him.