Page 68

Grace

Grace was lying on his back, shaking his head, with his arm slung over his eyes.

His phone vibrated like mad on his bed, the screen flashing continuous red alerts, notifying him there was a fire in his home.

He didn’t have smoke detectors or ones for carbon monoxide. His home was too high-tech to require them.

If he wanted, he could activate his sprinkler system, but when he pulled up the live footage of his kitchen, he saw it was mostly contained to the stove.

Grace rolled his eyes at Mirage running around like a damn chicken with its head cut off.

“I had no intentions of waking until noon since you said debriefing wasn’t until thirteen hundred.” Spectre yawned through the earpiece.

“Yeah, me either,” Grace rumbled.

“So why the fuck is your house on fire? The alarm on your guys’ floor rang on my phone. I called Mirage, but I got no answer.”

“Go back to sleep. Everything is under control,” he growled before he pressed the code to cut the connection.

The flames were spreading to his custom-made labradorite gem countertops.

Motherfucker .

Grace slung the covers off and stormed out of his bedroom.

The air in the living room wasn’t as thick with smoke since the patio doors were open, but the kitchen was overwhelmed with a dense, acrid fog carrying the scent of burnt eggs and burning aluminum.

The flames were so high now—beyond using his fire blanket—they were leaving black scorch marks on the ceiling.

Grace walked casually into the kitchen and went for his fire extinguisher beneath the sink.

He stood a few feet from the stove and had just pulled the pin out when a heap of freezing cold towels hit him on the back of his head and then slid down his bare back.

“Oh shit! I didn’t see you, Grace, I swear!” Mirage yelled.

Grace didn’t bother to turn around at his partner’s ridiculousness. Instead, he focused on dousing the flames and preventing more damage to his counters.

He wasn’t upset about the potential cost of repairs—he’d send the bills to the organization—he was livid about handypersons and decorators having to come into his sanctuary again.

Once the yellow powder extinguished all the flames, Grace dropped the heavy device to the floor and turned to face Mirage.

His partner was in a towel, his chest and arms littered with red splotches. Mirage’s expression was sullen and so apologetic that Grace’s first instinct was to wrap him in his arms.

“I know. I fucked up big-time, Grace. I’m so sorry. I’ll get it fixed, I promise.”

Grace didn’t say a word.

He stepped forward, took Mirage’s hands, and placed them on his shoulders. With a slight tilt of his lips, he pulled Mirage into a close embrace. It wasn’t long before the tension in his frame melted away, and he accepted the hug, wrapping his arms around Grace’s neck.

Mirage wove his hand through Grace’s wet hair and buried his face against his throat, a silent display of his disappointment.

“I wanted to make us breakfast,” Mirage whispered.

“I know,” Grace rumbled. “It’s okay. Things can be replaced. I can handle damage.” He pulled back and cupped Mirage’s cheek. “What I can’t handle is you being upset and thinking I’m mad at you.”

Not giving Mirage another chance to apologize, Grace let out a soft sigh, then leaned forward and touched Mirage’s soft lips with gentleness.

It went longer than he thought as he relished the feel of Mirage’s relief.

When they pulled apart, he rested their foreheads against one another.

“Forgive me,” Mirage asked with his eyes closed, pulling Grace closer.

“I will—” Grace moaned into Mirage’s smoke-scented hair. “— if you take me back to bed right now and bury your dick so deep in me that I forget this bullshit ever happened.”