Page 103 of Claimed By the Psychos

"Thank you. For listening. For not running away screaming."

"Thank you for trusting me with it." I kiss the top of her head. "It's going to work out, Juniper. I know it doesn't feel like it right now, but it will. We'll figure out the thing with Felix, deal with whoever's trying to kill us, and find a way forward that doesn't end with anyone dying or disappearing."

"You promise?"

I shouldn't. I know better than to make promises about things I can't control. But she needs hope right now more than anything, and I'll find a way to make it true. "I promise."

She falls asleep in my lap, trusting me to hold her while she's vulnerable. I keep searching through financial records one-handed, the other arm wrapped around her, and try not to think about how right this feels. How complete.

Felix might be planning to leave, but we're not going to let him go without a fight. Not when Juniper needs him. Not when we need them both.

Chapter

Thirty-Eight

JUNIPER

The mansion has too many fucking rooms. I've been wandering for an hour, and I swear I keep finding new ones like the place breeds them when I'm not looking. There's a library that smells like leather and pretension, a music room with a piano that looks like a great surface to get fucked on, and what appears to be a meditation room that Carlisle definitely uses for something that isn't meditation.

The shadows trail behind me, equally bored, making up stories about what happened in each room. According to them, the meditation room is where Carlisle practices his murder poses, and honestly? I can see it. A few of them are so pretzely in my mind's eye that it makes me giggle, and I'm glad I'm alone at the moment.

I'm about to give up and go annoy Felix when I hear voices drifting from somewhere down the east wing. The alphas' voices. Hmm.

They're planning something without you.

"Like hell they are," I mutter, creeping closer.

The door to what must be their new war room is cracked open, because apparently these master tacticians never learnedbasic operational security. Or maybe they've just learned their lesson about me and locked doors. I press myself against the wall, channeling every ounce of assassin training into being invisible.

"—been three weeks and we've got fuck all," Bane's voice rumbles through the gap. "Whoever's behind this has gone to ground."

"Or they're waiting," Carlisle suggests, and I can hear him doing that thing where he flips his knife while talking. The soft whisper of metal through air is distinctive. "Patience is a virtue in our line of work."

"Your line of work," Archer corrects. "The rest of us prefer more direct approaches."

"Like what? Knocking on doors asking 'excuse me, did you hire two incredibly attractive assassins to kill us?'" Carlisle's voice drips sarcasm. "Very tactical."

I've heard enough. These idiots are planning something, and they're doing it without their two resident experts in clandestine murder. Time to collect my partner in crime.

Felix is exactly where I left him three hours ago, sprawled on our bed with a book that's definitely not the same one from this morning because the cover's different. He's plowed through at least four novels in the last few days, which means he's suddenly eitherreallyinto post-apocalyptic fiction or he's avoiding thinking about something.

"They're plotting without us," I announce, bouncing onto the bed hard enough to make him lose his place.

He doesn't even look up. "The alphas plot things every five minutes. It's their favorite hobby after brooding and flexing unnecessarily."

"This is different. War room plotting. Mission plotting. The kind where they use their serious voices and Carlisle stops making jokes about dismemberment."

That gets his attention. Silver eyes flick up to meet mine, and there's that spark of interest that makes my heart do somersaults. "War room?"

"The fancy one with the mahogany table and the maps that make them feel like they're planning a full-scale invasion instead of beating up drug dealers."

He sets the book aside with the kind of care that means he was on a good part but his curiosity wins. "Lead the way."

We move through the hallway like smoke, years of practice making our footsteps silent on the obscenely expensive hardwood. The voices get clearer as we approach, and I hear Elias say something about "calculated risk" which is doctor-speak for "terrible idea but fuck it."

"—could work," Bane's saying as we reach the door. "If we make ourselves visible enough, run a big enough operation?—"

"We paint a target on our backs," Archer finishes. "Again."