Page 85 of Penny for Your Saints

“Tell me you're talking about me without saying outright that you're talking about me.” I smile, but my stomach lurches with fear.

Caz looks to the others, their expressions impassive, then turns to face me.

“Louise, there’s something we should talk about…”

I look at the table, noticing Dennis’ handkerchief laid out between them.

“Alright then, start talking,” I hedge; my eyes unable to leave the snowy white square of cloth.

“Sébastien hasn’t run the tests yet, Louie, but we’re almost certain of what we’ll find,” Quentin begins, his tone too soft—too placating.

They want something, that much is obvious, but what?

“It almost goes without saying, yeah, Dennis is another of my—ourfated mates.” I lift my chin, looking appraisingly at the trio of Saints, still seated, down my nose.

I know what Quentin’s angling at, though I don’t know why.

“While I understand it might require some suspension of disbelief after a lifetime of not knowing fated mates are real—there are some serious considerations to make now that we know the truth,” Quentin continues.

Now, this I did not see coming.

“You can't possibly be suggesting…” I laugh, unable to continue the preposterous thought.

“Yes, Loulu. We are most absolutely suggesting that we bite—we bond,” Sébastien interjects impatiently.

“What!?” I begin indignantly, but Quentin rushes in before I can finish my objection.

“We've started to experience just a glimpse of the connection that we could have once properly bonded. Not to mention,a mating bond provides a sacred and secret method of communication available only to thosebondedby bite, blood, and soul,” Quentin reasons.

“There have already been more than a few dangerous situations where this connection would have been useful,” Sébastien backs him up.

Caz sits silently, his eyes fixed on his ragged cuticles as he tears them apart in his anxiety.

“Moreover, as we begin to dig deeper—to find our path toward creating a lasting cure for the Zeitnot virus—we will be making our way through some of the slimiest parts of the criminal underworld. As much as my pride hates for me to admit it, there's no question that things will be safer for you and I, Louise.” Quentin’s words sting with their truthful ring. “Omegas and sigmas already bonded into packs have far less to worry about in the places where we're going.”

Sébastien is in the process of echoing Quentin's sentiments, but I don't really hear his words. I've stopped listening. My attention is focused on Caz; his legs shaking nervously—his thumb beginning to bleed where he gnaws at a hangnail.

“And what do you think, Cazzy?” I lay a hand gently over his pinched fingers, guiding them away from his mouth.

He turns his face up to me, the morning light catching the close cropped golden buzz of his hair, his pale blue eyes brimming with tears.

“I think we've got no right to ask you anything,” he simpers, his lower lip trembling as he pulls his hands out from beneath mine before closing his palms back together over my hands protectively, as if in prayer.

“If you ask me what I want? I want us to be a pack.”

Quentin and Sébastien shift, regarding him with a tenderness that they hadn't before.

“I don't want us to be pack because we've threatened you, or because you think it's the only way you can survive, or because it was cosmically preassigned—I want to be pack because we've chosen to. Maybe that isn't possible—maybe we've never had the choice, but that's what I want.” Caz falls silent again as I raise my eyes to Quentin and Sébastien.

“And what about you two?”

Sébastien leans back in his seat, his arms reaching out over the cushioned backrest of the built-in sofa, turning his gaze to the rising sun.

“Someday, if it's possible, I'd like to be happy with you Cazimer, Quentin—and yes, even that bastard Frank.” He scrubs a hand over the stubble on his jaw.

“I've been in the life so long, I’ve never known a real ‘home’ that wasn’t made on the run. So I'm not entirely sure what happiness would look like, but…” Sébastien shrugs, but I can see the wetness of affection in his chocolate brown eyes. “I think it's something that I would want—to settle down somewhere away from it all, with a good kitchen and space for a garden, put down roots. Let Quentin feather his nest.” His eyes drift closed as he imagines it. “Yes, a quiet, good life.” Sébastien nods to himself before his eyes flutter open and meet Quentin’s, giving him the floor.

“I suspect that part of me has known for longer than I'd care to admit,” Quentin begins coolly.

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