Page 58 of Take You Home (Redwater Demons #3)

T he water in the showers is cold.

It’s probably for the best, Chester thinks bitterly. He needs that shock of frigid water on his body, needs that encouragement to scrub every trace of Obie’s touch off his skin??—

Needs to get in and out and back to reality as quickly as possible.

He hastily rinses the shampoo out of his hair before turning off the water, grabbing a towel, and heading to a secluded corner to dry off.

A few of the other hunters glance his way as they stumble in for their own showers, flat and disinterested, and Chester wraps the towel more firmly around his waist, irrationally scared that they’ll be able to see the evidence of what he did last night?—what he let Obie do to him last night?—written all over him.

Obie doesn’t have these problems in his stupid non-communal shower.

Chester scowls as he wrestles on his work uniform, tosses his towel in the laundry, and shoulders his way into the hallway, heading straight downstairs.

He feels antsy, jittery, unfocused, like he’s waiting for a hand to drop onto his shoulder or an amused voice to wind through his head or??—

Stop thinking about him. Focus. Chester takes a deep breath, trying to clear out some of the tightness in his lungs as he slips into the dining hall.

He’s only about fifteen minutes later than usual, but the line is nearly twice as long, and he keeps one eye on the clock as he waits, hoping he won’t have to rush to eat before his shift.

That’s another thing he can blame Obie for.

After he rifted out of Chester’s room without a backwards glance an hour ago, Chester had to bury his face in his knees and spend a long few minutes trying to remember how to breathe, trying to fight back the burning behind his eyes, trying to patch over the gaping wound he could feel throbbing in his chest??—

Goddamn Obadiah Smith. Goddamn Nostringvadha and his captivating true form and his unilateral ideas about what their future should look like.

About what Chester’s future should look like.

Some of this morning’s anger stirs back up behind his sternum, and he focuses on that as he grabs his breakfast and walks to his usual table on autopilot.

Good. Anger is easier to deal with, safer to deal with, than all the other emotions raging through him.

Because Obie knows exactly what Chester has been through over the past twelve years. He knows exactly how much the Sanctum took from Chester, knows exactly how much they hurt him and the people he cares about.

And Obie just wants Chester to forget all that? To abandon the goal they set for themselves last month, the very thing that brought them together? Obie wants to throw away the purpose that Chester finally found for his life, wants to fit Chester into the mold of who Obie thinks he should be?

Wants to take away Chester’s choices, just like the Sanctum did ?

He brings his fork down so hard that it skids across his plate with a hair-raising skreek. Wincing, he rests his forehead on his palm, closing his eyes.

No. No, that’s not fair. Obie just wanted to give destroying the Sanctum a slightly less prominent place in their lives, that’s all.

He just wanted to give Chester the chance for a new life?—a life where he wouldn’t have to worry about blacking out during interrogation duty or taking a beating if he made the slightest mistake or being disparaged by every hunter in the building.

A better life. A safer life.

A life where Chester could truly be himself.

But Chester doesn’t want that. Not until the Sanctum is no longer a threat. He can’t rest?— won’t rest?—until they can never hurt anybody ever again. Not like they hurt him and his family.

Not like they hurt Obie and his family, either.

Chester would never be able to forgive himself if he abandoned the cause now. Sighing, he blindly stabs at his eggs again.

“Wow. What’d those eggs do to you?”

Chester’s eyes snap open. Bryant is standing just across the table with her own tray of food, her eyebrows raised at Chester’s assault on his breakfast. “Bry,” he says, unexpected relief flooding through him. “Hey. When’d you get back?”

She collapses into the seat opposite him with a groan, stretching her arms above her head. “Dude, I literally just got in. I haven’t even??—?”

“Showered yet?”

“Piss off,” she says breezily, but she shoots him a crooked grin as she grabs her spoon. “I figured I’d catch you here first and then head up to my suite to shower. Not like I have to beat the rush, after all.”

“Must be nice to not have to fight for the hot water,” Chester drawls, and all at once, a pang twinges through him .

It’s been so long since he and Bryant have just hung out. Sure, they try to eat meals together when Chester is off shift and Bryant isn’t on missions, but even that’s hit or miss lately.

And he didn’t know she was getting back today, but he should’ve. He’s been so preoccupied with his research and the conspiracy and Obie that he’s barely even thought about her, much less reached out to talk to her.

The next time she’s on a mission, he’ll make it a point to shoot her a few texts. Just to check in, see how she’s doing, let her know he’s thinking of her.

Exactly what he should’ve been doing all along, before the demon god sauntered into his life and made him forget everything else. He takes a deep breath. “Listen, I need to talk to you about something.”

Bryant’s eyebrows furrow. “Yeah?”

“I…” Chester looks down at his tray. “I know I haven’t been a very good friend to you lately. We fell off the wagon with our early-morning training sessions weeks ago, and we’ve barely talked outside of meals even when you’ve been off duty. I should’ve at least been texting you, and??—?”

“Oh, that?” Bryant waves a hand dismissively. “I’ve been on assignments, and you’ve been busy. No worries.”

“Being busy isn’t an excuse for me to neglect you,” Chester argues. “And I haven’t really been much busier than usual. Not with anything that couldn’t wait, anyway.”

“You’re handling tons of strike team audits to get back into the Council’s good graces,” she counters, “and researching on the side to figure out how to get our friends back. I’d classify both of those things in the ‘can’t wait’ category.”

A stab of guilt twists through Chester. “Will you stop making excuses for me? I’m trying to apologize here.”

“Well, your apology is stupid. Therefore, I do not accept it. ”

“I hate you.”

“Rude. That’s not a very good apologization tactic, Locke.”

“That’s?—that’s not a word, Nehemiah.”

“I haven’t slept in over twenty-four hours. Cut me some slack.” Unceremoniously, Bryant shoves a huge piece of sausage into her mouth. “Anyway, now that we’ve finished that part of the conversation??—?”

“We haven’t.”

“Dude, has it escaped your notice that I’ve barely texted you, either?

” Bryant demands, frustration winding through her voice.

“Relationships go both ways. And without?—without Jackson and Gutierrez here to bully us into human socialization, we both tend to fixate on our jobs. We’re the same like that.

Too much the same like that, sometimes.” She leans forward, her eyes gleaming.

“But you’re still my friend, and I’m still yours. That’s really all I need to know.”

Chester’s throat feels tight. “Thanks, Bry.”

“Anytime,” she says, and she takes an enormous bite of her toast. “Anyway, now that we’ve finished that part of the conversation, I want to hear about you. What’s been going on around here?”

Chester dutifully launches into a heavily edited account of the past week, leaving out pesky little details like watching JJ get engaged to his demon boyfriend and having sex with a god on an interrogation table.

Since those were really the only interesting parts, Bryant is falling asleep over her plate within minutes, and Chester repeatedly kicks her in the shin until she curses at him, dumps the rest of her food onto his tray, and gives him a bleary wave before stumbling upstairs to pass out.

Leaving Chester alone with his thoughts once again. Grimacing, he glances towards the clock on the wall, half-hoping the minute hand will speed up and give him the distraction of twelve hours hustling around the prison .

Getting him that much closer to Obie coming back tonight.

Just to confirm. Last night didn’t change anything for you?

Chester takes a deep breath. Lets it out slowly.

Releases the stranglehold on his anger just enough to try and see the situation from Obie’s point of view.

Obie still wants to take the Sanctum down. He never compromised on that. But, like he said, he’s seen empires rise and fall. He doesn’t have that same urgency, that same deadline, that Chester has.

Because Chester is human. He’s mortal. If he’s lucky, he might have another eighty years. That’s all the time he has to bring the Sanctum to its knees, all the time he has to make sure they know their perfect prototype is the one who destroyed them.

But, in Obie’s mind, eighty years isn’t his deadline for dismantling the Sanctum.

Eighty years is the only time he’ll ever get with Chester.

The realization makes Chester’s chest feel tight all over again.

That was where they fell apart this morning.

That was what they couldn’t figure out how to say.

When Chester said that he wanted to spend the rest of his life taking down the Sanctum, he meant that he wanted to do that with Obie, to work towards that with Obie, to make it his life’s goal with Obie??—

But Obie probably thought that Chester meant Obie would always be secondary to Chester’s vengeance. That Obie could never have all of Chester, because part of him would always be prioritizing that mission.

That their sixth love language meant more to Chester than Obie himself did.

Hell. If someone told Chester that, he would’ve walked out on them, too. He feels sick at the thought. Yes, getting revenge on the Sanctum will be one of the sweetest days of his life, but?? —

But it won’t mean anything if he doesn’t have Obie right there beside him.

Chester reaches for his cell phone, already mentally writing an apology text, before he remembers with a flash of irritation that he and Obie still haven’t exchanged numbers. With the binding spell and their joint goals keeping them in such close proximity, there was never any reason for it.

He desperately hopes that Obie doesn’t spend the whole day fuming over Chester’s words. If he does, though, then Chester isn’t above getting down on his knees and begging for forgiveness.

He’s not giving up on them this easily. Not after everything they’ve been through, not after everything they’ve overcome.

Not without trying again.

“Locke.” Chester is so lost in thought that he starts with surprise at the voice, whipping his head around. Safadi is striding up to Chester’s table, a stack of manila folders in his hand. “You’re needed early in the prison today.”

“Early?” Chester repeats, shoving a last bite of toast into his mouth and pushing himself to his feet. “Is something wrong?”

“We’re short-staffed, as usual,” Safadi says. “A few high-priority demons arrived two hours ago, which means our spellcasters are busy revamping the prison’s anti-magic spells, which means there’s a backlog of demons for testing, which means?—well, you get the picture.”

Chester’s stomach churns. “They don’t need more interrogators, right?”

He knows the words were a mistake the instant Safadi’s eyes narrow. “I thought you were trying to get back on interrogation duty, Locke.”

“I am,” Chester lies hastily, “but?—but I was hoping to, um, watch a few of the senior interrogators at work today. Pick up some tricks to avoid any future mistakes, you know?”

After a long, tense moment, Safadi shakes his head. “You’re not going to have time for that today. The prison is almost at full capacity?—only one spare interrogation room left?—so we need all available auxiliary staff to manage our operations.”

Auxiliary staff. Relief floods through Chester. After the night he just shared with Obie, he doesn’t think he could stomach torturing a demon right now?—probably not ever again. “Understood. What’s my assignment?”

“Halls 7 and 8,” Safadi says, handing Chester the stack of folders, and Chester fights back a wince. He and Obie were in Hall 8 last night. “And don’t screw it up. We have a new arrival that’s very well known, and the Council wants her interrogation to go off without a hitch.”

The words pique Chester’s interest. Idly, he flips through the folders. “Really? Who is?—??”

He reaches the last file.

His heart drops.

Safadi doesn’t seem to notice. “Magdalena Khan,” he says casually, and he turns on his heel. “Let’s get moving, Locke. We have work to do.”

Chester stares down at the picture of Maggie Khan, of the demon who started World War I and has a fondness for Nack Bar George’s boneless wings and always indulges the twins’ bickering and is Obie’s friend? —and Chester’s, too?—before swallowing down his nausea and jogging after Safadi, his mind already racing at a thousand miles per hour.

Looks like Obie is going to get the future he wanted for them sooner than he anticipated .

Because there’s no way in hell Chester is going to let any of those interrogators lay a hand on Maggie without a fight.