Page 9

Fucking January.

Gideon isn’t one to have a favorite month, unlike most people. Weather is just weather, and Gideon just gets on with whatever it brings.

Heat in the summer? Yay. Mates in banana-hammocks and Luca with a bare butt outside, getting more and more golden in all the places Gideon likes to lick.

Pouring rain? Fine. Gideon will, conveniently and naturally, be on the front porch to see Jay in a wet T-shirt as he parks the Ducati in the garage after forgetting to read the weather report.

Thunder and lightning in the fall? Damn right. It means pleasurable nights spent in the living room by candlelight, teaching Rowan how to make his mates come over and over until they all fall into a sated and exhausted pile of sweaty, come-soaked skin.

Foggy nights curled up in the library are nice, so he can watch Finn work or read poetry to Grayson while Gideon combs his fingers through his mate’s silky hair.

He even appreciates the dewy early mornings in spring, when Leo will drag him to the Flower Show where they hold hands under the weak sunshine, coffee in hand, and Gideon can listen to his mate’s smooth voice mutter to himself (and to Gideon) about the meaning of flowers.

Even though it’ll be Grayson that Leo takes with him when they buy some for the house, it’s always Gideon he takes in spring.

He hopes that in the coming months there will be something he shares with his kitten, too.

But winter? Gideon fucking hates winter.

He’s reminded of why he hates it as he makes his way through Lupine Park mid-morning on a Friday, when he should be at home curled up with his kittens after a night of reminding them who’s boss.

But no. He’s standing in a brisk breeze, freezing his balls off, and trying to find a specific park bench at the far end of the park.

Finding “the bench facing a cherry tree and not the river at the north end” had been surprisingly easy, all things considered. The plain wooden bench sits facing a small walkway, with its back to the river itself.

This part of the park sees less foot traffic, given its obstructed views, and that suits Gideon just fine. He’s here to meet someone for some information and it would be better if there weren’t as many observers, unintentional or otherwise.

Locating this person had been his sole purpose since they arrived home from the mountains in October.

It’s taken hundreds of hours camped out in bars, meetings in alleyways and coffee shops, and—on one memorable occasion—at a dog show in December (Gideon had been unimpressed; his Tsuki would outshine every single one of those dogs in both beauty and brains).

Now, after months of patience Gideon didn’t feel and couldn’t afford, he’d finally received word: the man he’d been looking for would meet him here, of all places.

Gideon’s relieved it hadn’t been easy to find him. If it had been, he would’ve been suspicious—and so would Patrick Carnell.

Immediately after Nix had put Hayes down, Gideon had gone looking for Carnell. He’d gone to the penthouse only to find it empty—furniture draped in sheets, dust covering the hardwood floors.

He hadn’t expected it to be that easy. Carnell hadn’t survived this long without a keen sense of self-preservation. But the code to the door had still been Gideon’s birthday.

And Gideon recognized it for what it was: the cat-and-mouse game the old devil had meant it to be.I know you’re looking for me, Allistair. Catch me if you can.

Gideon is still unsure if he’s the cat or the mouse in this game of theirs.

Carnell hadn’t been in any of his usual haunts either, so Gideon had been reduced to spending three months skulking in the darkest corners of Nashville for crumbs, hoping one would lead him to where his father might have gone to ground. Just last night, he’d finally made the connection that has him here, outside in the dead of winter.

Pulling the edge of his coat down, Gideon sits, angling his body toward the river and watching for anyone who might dawdle or stop—anyone who might be overly interested in a dumbass sitting on a park bench in January.

Sure, he’s dressed for winter in his black beanie, a puffer jacket stolen from Jay’s multitudes, and some fingerless gloves, but the early afternoon is still sitting at a frigid 30°F. Tourists won’t be in this part of the park for months yet, and any locals with a grain of sense are at work or home.

It’s the memory of the intruders that broke in—and that sniper in the mountains before Nix’s combat—that keeps him vigilant despite the freezing weather.

His phone vibrates in his jacket, and a tingle of something zips down his spine. He’s not ready to label it any more than he wants to read what Luca has just sent.

Gideon knows it’s Luca texting because he can feel the dull ache in his chest, in the same way he knows that it’s Luca’s pain he feels.

It’s the fourth time since Gideon crept out of the nest two hours ago without saying goodbye.

1:09 PM — from Luca