Page 73 of Golden Eagle

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“You’re smiling at me,” Nikita observed over a lunch of fajitas at their favorite – well, Sasha’s favorite – little Mexican restaurant. A string of plastic Dos Equis flags looped from the ceiling overhead, low enough that Nik’s hair kept brushing the very tip of one. In the wash of sunlight through the window, and the dazzle of colored Christmas lights threaded along the rafters, he glowed with good health: well-fed and brighter than he ever looked.

“Because you’re so handsome,” Sasha said, and Nik turnedred. “And because you’re eating.”

Nikita rolled his eyes, face still red, but loaded up another tortilla with grilled steak, onions, and peppers.

Sasha happily fixed himself another chicken one, and nodded when their server hustled past with a pointed look at their glasses in question. They were drinking soda –soda. And not vodka. He couldn’t remember the last time Nikita had been able to eat without the help of at least a little alcohol.

“So, what now?” Sasha asked around a huge mouthful.

Their server stopped by to top off their cups, and Nikita thanked him. Then, in an undertone, after the man had walked off, he said, “Dunno,” and glanced out the window at the passing foot traffic.

Sasha swallowed and frowned. “What are we going to do about Gustav?” he clarified, but had the sense he hadn’t needed to.

Nikita shrugged. “We can’t find him. Maybe we should just quit looking. Waste of time, really.”

Nikita set his fajita down, and wiped his hands on a napkin. “Nik.”

His lover didn’t turn his head, but his eyes cut over, icy gray in the sunlight.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Nik said, blank-faced, plainly lying.

Sasha kicked him lightly under the table. “What did Colette say when she sent me out of the room?”

“She didn’t.”Drop it, Nik’s tone said, not aggressive, but firm.

Even just a few weeks before, Sashawouldhave dropped it. Not wanting to get Nikita upset, not wanting to create tension between them. But all that time there’d been tension anyway, and now Sasha was going to be insistent.

“You don’t ever want to call off the hunt,” Sasha reasoned. “So what changed?” When Nik’s gaze narrowed, back bowing up to resist, he said, “Colette didn’t even drink the whiskey. She wanted me gone so she could say something. Something about me? Does she think Gustav will try to” – he lowered his voice, a whisper too soft for human ears, as the first kernel of dread took root in the back of his mind – “bind me?”

“No.” Much too loud. People from the neighboring table craned to look over their shoulders. But Nikita didn’t seem to care, forearms planting on the edge of the table as he leaned low over it, eyes flashing. Again: “No.”

Sasha sighed. “You heard what Trina said. What Will Scarlet told her: people will try to do it. You not liking it won’t prevent that.”

Nik growled.

It was low, and probably passed for human, but Sasha kicked him again.

“Stop that. Be mad as you like, but you know the only way to prevent that from happening.”

“No,” Nik said again, cold now, and sat back, averted his gaze. Like the matter was decided.

“Why won’t you at least consider it?”

He folded his arms. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Sasha knew a sudden urge to laugh at the childish absurdity of the pose.Big baby, he thought fondly.

“Well,” he said, “if Gustav doesn’t want that, then why call off the hunt?” When Nik didn’t respond, he let some of the carefully checked hurt bleed into his voice. “You really won’t tell me? You’re just going to keep secrets?”

The words hit Nik like a slap. The frown was blasted away, leaving wide eyes, and a slack mouth, shock and vulnerability.

Sasha offered a smile. Tipped his head imploringly. “I just…I thought we were being...”Honest, he didn’t say. “But I don’t – I won’t pressure you. You don’t have to tell me.”

Nikita stared at him a long moment, face uncharacteristically open. Emotion writ in every line. Then he exhaled, and he seemed to sink down deeper in his chair. Defeated – but looking relieved for it. “You’re right. We should –Ishould – be honest.” He traced nervous fingertips along the table’s edge, but met Sasha’s gaze, his own still unguarded. “Colette says he owns a bar. A bar for immortals. That he’s well-liked. And she thinks, for some reason, that he’s very powerful, and has important connections.”

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