Hidden Passions (Hidden, #7)(38)

"Okay," Chris said. He touched Tony's arm, his fingers gentle on his bicep. "Call me if you need anything. I . . . Tony, I know this situation isn't perfect, but I want to be here for you."

Tony nodded. He couldn't slap at Chris for the offer; it was too decent. He drew the shower curtain aside for him. Chris stepped out, looking back at Tony from outside the tub. Though the tiger's expression didn't plead, it was very serious.


Tony thought Chris might say something. He turned instead, grabbed a towel on his way out, and left the bathroom to Tony.

~

Chris scrubbed the towel over his wet hair as he strode back to the entryway. The terrycloth didn't push any happier feelings into his brain. Chris knew Tony wasn't a kid. Okay, maybe he seemed like one compared to Chris. In this instance, however, Tony was being more mature.

The wolf was smart to keep an emotional distance. Getting attached to Chris would be a bad gamble. The problem was Chris had gotten attached to him. Though he tried to breathe more air into it, his chest was tight as he dried himself and dressed. His briefs were still in the bathroom. He'd have to go commando. Somehow, his shirt had ended up in the living room, hanging off the sofa arm. As he tugged it free, something else fell along with it.

It was another shirt, a dark blue Hugo Boss. The tiny stitches at the shoulder seams were stretched out enough to be visible.

This was the shirt Nate had been looking for, the shirt Tony had nabbed from Nate's work supply and worn. It must have been laundered before he borrowed it. Nate's scent barely clung to the fine cotton.

Chris balled the garment against his breastbone. This was how Tony had been comforting himself: not merely with the scent of pack but with the scent of a man he maybe wished were available. Was it a coincidence that Chris and Tony had their first sexual encounter in Nate's loft? Had the setting been an extra charge for the wolf? Maybe subconsciously?

He shook his head and set the shirt back where he'd found it. This wasn't his business.

He glanced back toward the bathroom. Though the sound of the shower had stopped, the door remained stubbornly closed. Chris wanted badly to open it. He wanted to kiss Tony, to lead him to his probable hurricane aftermath of a bedroom. He wanted to hold him safe in his arms while he slept soundly. Tony deserved real support from someone.

Tony deserved a man who'd be there in the morning.

Grimacing, Chris buttoned up his plain white shirt. He'd made his choices, and he'd long ago learned to live with them. Chris couldn't blame Tony if, right that moment, he ached with regret.





CHAPTER SEVEN


TONY was at his desk in the pack's squad room. His feet were stacked on top of a pile of files, and he'd leaned his weight steeply back in his swiveling chair. In response to a dull headache, he was squeezing his temples.

He'd been on hold for half an hour.

His own brainstorm was to blame for this. He'd had the brilliant idea of contacting the city's gargoyles. Not only was their species magically sensitive but, due to their roosting habits, they were in a position to observe unusual fae activity, including the sort Sword Guy was engaged in. Unlike normal psychics, gargoyles wouldn't gossip about what they'd seen--or about being asked. Gargoyles were protective of Resurrection, but they also were telepaths. Aside from Pidgin English, most avoided communicating verbally. The idea of letting the general public know they were highly intelligent didn't appeal to them.

Stupidly, Tony had called the Gargoyle Liaison Office, whose nighttime staff consisted of a single nervous human girl. She was attempting to contact her employers with mind power, because of course they didn't use cellphones. Every time Tony tried to tell her she could give up, she insisted she just needed one more minute.

"My bosses love helping the police," she declared.

Tony should have driven home instead. Their friend Grant the gargoyle lived on the brownstone roof. He flew out a lot after dark, but eventually he'd have landed. He spoke better English than Tony, at least when they were alone. Tony was totally spinning his wheels hanging on this line.

He wished he had a better use for his time. Rick and Cass had been gone ten days. The tracking chip in Rick's phone and the LoJack in their getaway car had been disabled. Tony told himself the pair had likely shut them off to avoid being followed by dragon-hunting fae. If his assumption was correct, their strategy worked equally well on friends. Cass's rich girl clique had no idea where she was, and they were worried too. As discreetly as he could, Adam had requested a high-res sat-search of the city and its environs. Nothing abnormal had turned up--or nothing abnormal for Resurrection. The squad was forced to return their focus to other cases. Working past regular hours was how they made up for it.

All of them were at the office now.

A sudden extra buzziness in the air caused Tony to jerk straight. "Sorry," he told the well-meaning gargoyle liaison. "Gotta go."

He hung up and dropped his beat-up running shoes to the floor. Without stopping to wonder why, he swiveled toward Adam's office, where the blinds were open but not raised. Nate and Carmine had just done the same as him.

Adam was on the phone, standing with his back to them. The abrupt flaring of his aura was what had alerted them.


"Jesus," Adam said. "Where the hell are you? Are you all right?"

He had to be talking to Tony's brother. Tony jumped up and bounded to Adam's door, his hearing automatically sharpening to listen for Rick's response. Adam didn't turn, just lifted his hand to prevent Tony from speaking.