Not Your Ex's Hexes (Supernatural Singles, #2)(44)

“I won’t grow bat wings, will I?” Rose joked.

He gunned the bike’s engine. “Hold on, little witch.”

“Damian?” Rose squeezed his waist, her voice raising. “Will I?”

“It’ll be fine. We just need to get to the sanctuary, and you’ll want to hold on a little tighter because we won’t be following the speed limit.”

Her questions ended on a small squeal as he tore out of the alley. Too worried about what would happen if they didn’t treat that Gryndor cut ASAP, Damian no longer basked in the feeling of her body pressed tight against his.

Fucking Gryndors. Fucking Jules. Just … fuck.

Damian mentally kicked himself for dropping his guard. He’d only meant to scope out the Blood Moon in case he accepted Julius’s offered Hunt job. He never anticipated Rose stumbling into the wrong place at the wrong time, much less the Gryndors crashing the party.

Clenching his jaw so tight his teeth ached, Damian let out a small sigh of relief when the sanctuary came into view. He parked and let Rose slide off the bike, the witch already clutching her arm tight to her chest. There was no way she wasn’t in a fuck-ton of pain.

When he’d been twelve, he’d taken a talon to the shoulder during what his father had called “field training,” and he’d nearly passed out cold. But Rose didn’t let out so much as a whimper as she followed him upstairs to his apartment.

Once through the door, he tossed his keys onto a small side table. The place wasn’t much, but it was home. An open loft, the kitchen blended into a cozy entertainment room that had a small couch and a single cushioned chair. His bed sat kitty-corner, angled by the window so that on his sleepless nights—which were most of them—he had a decent view of the moon and stars, something that didn’t often happen in the city.

He caught Rose inspecting the area as he led the way to the bathroom. “It’s not much, but it serves its purpose.”

“I think it’s great.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Yes, really. I took over Vi’s studio when she moved into the brownstone with Linc, and it’s not nearly as spacious as this … and I bet you don’t have upstairs neighbors clog-dancing at two in the morning. And I’m not being sarcastic. They dance on Broadway.”

“Clog-dancing? No. But heat isn’t the only thing that rises. When one of the horses has stomach issues, there isn’t enough Febreze on the planet to stop the stench from drifting up.”

She wrinkled her nose, the gesture emphasizing a slight smattering of freckles over the bridge of her nose. “I don’t know if you’re joking or not.”

“Maybe you should try and steal another horse or two and extend your community service sentence so you’re around in the summer to find out.” His lips twitched as he nodded toward the bathroom. “Have a seat and we’ll make sure you don’t sprout bat wings.”

She did as he said, shrugging out of her jacket with a small grimace. “Where do you want me?”

Oh, he had a few preferences, but he played nice. “Up here.”

Gripping her hips, he hoisted her onto the sink counter before pulling out his emergency med kit from the small wall vanity. He flipped open the latch and it sprung open, showcasing the treasure trove of Hunting essentials.

She watched him with blatant interest. “Done this before, have you?”

“Once upon a time, this was a daily occurrence.” He laid out the necessary items. Gauze and antibiotic ointment. But this kit also had vials of antidotes, antivenoms, and even anti-thrall serums, which were necessities when Hunting Supernaturals gifted in Compulsion.

Like Damian’s dear old dad. The bastard had thrived on getting his sons to do his every bidding, and even back then, Damian didn’t much like being someone’s puppet. When it had become obvious that there was no breaking Ezeil’s influence by natural means—or talents—Damian resorted to black-market anti-thrall serum.

“This will sting like a bitch, but the cut needs cleaning before applying the salve.” Damian extended his hand. “May I?”

“Go for it.” She offered her arm.

He gently skated his fingers up the silky softness of her skin, tracing the outer rim of redness already setting. He wet the gauze in saline and held it above the gash. “You ready?”

She sucked in a breath and nodded. “Just do it.”

He squeezed the first drop of antiseptic, and Rose flinched. Hell, so did he. But she held still as he continued cleaning her up.

“So”—Rose looked away from the gash—“are you going to explain what happened with your brother back there, or am I expected to act as if it didn’t happen?”

“Gryndors happened … and yes.”

“Yes what?”

He cleaned away the last of the dirt and grime and reached for the antivenom salve, his gaze shooting up to hers. “It would be best for everyone if you forgot anything you heard … or think you did.”

“You’re a Supernatural bounty hunter.”

“Former … and I thought we agreed you’d forget about hearing that.”

She snorted. “No, you directed, but luckily for you, I’ve never been so great at following orders. That Gryndor called you Scourge. For you to be graced with a nickname, you must have been pretty darn entrenched.”