Page 9

BACK TO BUSINESS

SEAN

S unlight hit me like a slap, cutting through the blinds and landing right across my face. I reached out automatically, looking for warmth that wasn't there. Just cold sheets and an empty space where someone should have been.

For a split second, panic clawed at my throat. Had I dreamed it all? The whole fucking mess—Cade showing up, Sterling's grim face, my cat acting like Christmas morning?

Then I smelled coffee.

“Jaysus,” I muttered, rolling out of bed and grabbing yesterday's jeans off the floor. No shirt, no socks, just stumbled toward the kitchen following that beautiful smell like a zombie after brains.

The warehouse had never been much to look at—concrete walls, exposed everything, harsh lighting that made you feel like you were living in a bunker.

Which, honestly, I kind of was. But it worked.

Had a bed, had a kitchen, had enough space to store an ungodly amount of weapons. What more did a guy need?

Roxie shot past me like she was late for something important, all cream fur and attitude, heading straight for the kitchen. At least someone was excited about our houseguest.

I stopped at the doorway, squinting against the brightness. Morning light poured through the big windows, turning everything golden and making the whole scene look weirdly domestic.

And there he was.

Cade sat at my kitchen table with one of my laptops, coffee steaming next to him, looking like he'd been there all along.

Hair still damp from the shower, curling at the ends the way it always did.

Wearing one of my old t-shirts that hung loose on him now, and sweatpants I didn't recognize—probably Sterling's.

Roxie had already claimed her spot on the table, demanding attention. Cade scratched behind her ears without looking away from the screen, movements automatic. She purred like a damn engine.

I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, heart doing weird things in my chest. “So I didn't imagine you.”

He glanced up, one eyebrow raised in that way that used to drive me crazy. Still did, apparently. “Nope.” Took a sip of coffee, eyes back on the screen. “Made breakfast. Found bacon and eggs.”

Like it was just another morning. Like he hadn't crawled back from literal Hell. Like we hadn't spent half the night tiptoeing around each other, both of us trying to figure out what the fuck we were supposed to do now.

“You look like shit,” I said, pushing off the doorframe and heading for the coffee.

“Thanks. You're not exactly a beauty queen yourself.”

I snorted, grabbing a mug. “Nothing new there.”

The silence stretched, filled with Cade's typing and Roxie's rumbling purr. Morning light caught the dust floating between us, making everything feel suspended, uncertain.

I studied him over my coffee mug. In the harsh light of day, I could see things I'd missed last night. The way his cheekbones stood out sharper. The scar peeking out from under his collar. How his wrists looked too thin, like he'd been stretched on a rack.

But it was more than that. The way he moved, so careful, so precise. Like he was operating borrowed equipment and wasn't sure how it worked yet.

“There's bacon,” he said without looking up. “Should still be warm.”

I found the plate by the stove—perfectly cooked bacon, eggs that had gone a little cold. Evidence that someone had been playing house while I slept.

“Christ,” I muttered, grabbing a piece of bacon. “You've been back one day and you're already cooking breakfast like Ward Fucking Cleaver.”

His hands went still on the keyboard. “Would you rather I have a breakdown?”

The edge in his voice was new. Sharp, brittle. Before, Cade was steady as a rock, never lost his cool. This felt like glass about to shatter.

“No,” I said, loading up a plate. “Just trying to figure out how you're even upright right now.”

I sat down across from him harder than necessary, the plate clattering against the table. Roxie jumped down with an offended yowl.

“How do you feel?” I asked, cutting through whatever bullshit deflection he was about to throw at me. “Really. No games.”

Cade stopped typing. His jaw worked for a second, like he was chewing on words he didn't want to say. “I feel like I lost six months of my life,” he said finally. “And I don't have time to sit around crying about it.”

I rubbed my face, stubble scratching against my palm. “Jesus, Cade. You just got back. You were in Hell, or worse. And you want to jump straight back into hunting?”

“What else am I supposed to do?” He looked at me then, really looked, and for a second I saw something raw underneath all that control. “Meditate? Keep a fucking journal? 'Hi, doc, I spent eternity in hell and now I am back, got any advice?'”

The sarcasm stung, but at least it was emotion. Better than the blank wall he'd been giving me.

“I'd like you to take five minutes to breathe,” I shot back. “To talk to me about what happened.”

“I told you, I don't remember.”

“Bullshit.” I leaned forward. “You remember enough that you're running from it.”

His knuckles went white where he gripped the laptop, then deliberately relaxed. “The department thinks I'm dead. It's better that way. I was planning to quit anyway.”

I stared at him. “So that's it? You're just going to pretend nothing happened? Hunt monsters, save people, keep the family business running?”

“What else is there, Sean?” And there it was again, that flash of something desperate under all the control. “This is what I know. What we know.”

The “we” hit me like a punch to the gut. Whatever was wrong with him, whatever was missing, we were still connected. Still a team.

“Yeah,” I said, the fight draining out of me. “I guess it is.”

Roxie jumped back onto the table, settling between us like a furry referee. Her tail twitched as she watched our standoff.

“Besides,” Cade said, voice lighter now, “you've been hunting solo for six months. Don't tell me you're not dying to have backup again.”

Hard to argue with that. Six months of patching my own wounds, driving through the night with nothing but the radio for company, waking up from nightmares with no one to talk to.

“Having you watch my six wouldn't suck,” I admitted, stealing a piece of bacon off my abandoned plate. “Assuming you still remember which end of a gun to point at the bad guys.”

Something that might have been a smile touched his lips. “I think I can manage.”

I sighed, shaking my head. “Alright. Fine. What's the case?”

Relief flickered across his face as he turned the laptop toward me. Back to business. Safe territory.

“Dead guy in Jersey. Body drained, no blood at the scene.” His voice shifted into that professional tone I'd heard a thousand times. “Two more with the same pattern. No official cause of death.”

I looked at the photos and immediately felt sick. Three bodies, all male, looking like they'd been left in the desert for months. Skin pulled tight, eyes sunken, lips peeled back from their teeth.

“Psychic vampire,” I said automatically. “Haven't seen one in years, but those are the signs. They drain life force instead of blood.”

Cade nodded, perking up with interest. “That would explain the desiccation.”

“Yeah. They're territorial, usually stick to one hunting ground. And they're picky about their victims—target specific emotions.”

“What's this one feeding on?”

I studied the victim profiles. “All men, different backgrounds, different lives. But they all disappeared for about twelve hours before turning up dead. And they were all last seen at bars in the same area of Hoboken.”

“So our monster's working the bar scene.”

“Gets better.” I pulled up security footage on my phone. “Look at this—victim two leaving O'Malley's.”

The footage showed a thin guy in his thirties walking out of the bar, talking animatedly to nobody. Gesturing, nodding, following something invisible into the dark.

“Jesus,” Cade muttered.

“Classic psychic vampire. They project whatever the victim wants most—love, acceptance, whatever. The mark sees their deepest desire and follows it straight to their death.”

Cade absorbed this, mind already working the angles. “How do we kill it?”

“Iron through the heart, same as most vampires. Trick is getting close enough without letting it get in your head first.”

“Guess we're taking a trip to Jersey.”

“Already been tracking this one. Was going to handle it solo next week, but backup would be nice. These things are nasty when cornered.”

“You've been working this case?” Something like surprise crossed his face.

“Been working a lot of cases. Stayed busy.”

The words hung between us, loaded with six months of grief and anger and desperate searching. But at least now we had something concrete to focus on that didn't involve examining all the ways everything had gone to shit.

“We should check with Skye first,” I said, standing up. “Get some intel, maybe some gear to help resist mental intrusion.”

“Skye's in town?”

“They've been helping with research since...” I caught myself before saying 'since you died.' “They've been working out of the underground for months.”

Guilt flashed across his face. “I didn't know they were involved.”

“A lot changed while you were gone. Skye stepped up big time. We all did.”

He absorbed that with a nod. “Then we should definitely talk to them.”

“Right. I'll shower, you gather whatever gear you think we need. We'll head down after.”

I paused at the doorway, looking back at him. In the bright kitchen light, he almost looked normal. Almost like himself. But the shadows under his eyes told a different story.

How long before you tell me what really happened in there? I thought, but kept my mouth shut. For now, I'd follow his lead. Give him space to figure out whatever version of himself he was becoming.

One case at a time. It was all I could do.