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“Mom, can we not?” Bryce sighed. “How’s the pottery business?”

Ember opened her mouth, but Randall nudged her knee again, a silent plea to let it drop. “Business,” Ember said tightly, “is going great.”

Bryce knew her mother was a brewing tempest.

Hunt was kind to them, friendly even, well aware that her mom was now on a mission to figure out why he was here, and what existed between them. But he asked Randall about his job as co-head of an organization to help humans traumatized by their military service and asked her mom about her roadside stand selling pottery of fat babies lolling in various beds of vegetables.

Her mom and Hunt were currently debating which sunball players were best this season, and Randall was still flipping through the newspaper and chiming in every now and then.

It had gutted her to hear what had happened to Hunt’s own mother. She kept the call going longer than usual because of it. Because he was right. Rubbing her aching leg beneath the table—she’d strained it again at some point during their cleaning—Bryce dug into her third croissant and said to Randall, “This still isn’t as good as yours.”

“Move back home,” her dad said, “and you could have them every day.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she said, eating another mouthful. She massaged her thigh. “I thought you were supposed to be the cool parent. You’ve become even worse than Mom with the nagging.”

“I was always worse than your mother,” he said mildly. “I was just better at hiding it.”

Bryce said to Hunt, “This is why my parents have to ambush me if they want to visit. I’d never let them through the door.”

Hunt just glanced at her lap—her thigh—before he asked Ember, “Have you tried to get her to a medwitch for that leg?”

Bryce froze at exactly the same heartbeat as her mother.

“What’s wrong with her leg?” Ember’s eyes dropped to the lower half of her screen as if she could somehow see Bryce’s leg beneath the camera’s range, Randall following suit.

“Nothing,” Bryce said, glaring at Hunt. “A busybody angel, that’s what.”

“It’s the wound she got two years ago,” Hunt answered. “It still hurts her.” He rustled his wings, as if unable to help the impatient gesture. “And she still insists on running.”

Ember’s eyes filled with alarm. “Why would you do that, Bryce?”

Bryce set down her croissant. “It’s none of anyone’s business.”

“Bryce,” Randall said. “If it bothers you, you should see a medwitch.”

“It doesn’t bother me,” Bryce said through her teeth.

“Then why have you been rubbing your leg under the counter?” Hunt drawled.

“Because I was trying to convince it not to kick you in the face, asshole,” Bryce hissed.

“Bryce,” her mother gasped. Randall’s eyes widened.

But Hunt laughed. He rose, picking up the empty pastry bag and squishing it into a ball before tossing it into the trash can with the skill of one of his beloved sunball players. “I think the wound still has venom lingering from the demon who attacked her. If she doesn’t get it checked out before the Drop, she’ll be in pain for centuries.”

Bryce shot to her feet, hiding her wince at the ripple of pain in her thigh. They’d never discussed it—that the kristallos’s venom might indeed still be in her leg. “I don’t need you deciding what is best for me, you—”

“Alphahole?” Hunt supplied, going to the sink and turning on the water. “We’re partners. Partners look out for each other. If you won’t listen to me about your gods-damned leg, then maybe you’ll listen to your parents.”

“How bad is it?” Randall asked quietly.

Bryce whirled back to the computer. “It’s fine.”

Randall pointed to the floor behind her. “Balance on that leg and tell me that again.”

Bryce refused to move. Filling a glass of water, Hunt smiled, pure male satisfaction.

Ember reached for her phone, which she’d discarded on the cushions beside her. “I’ll find the nearest medwitch and see if she can squeeze you in tomorrow—”