Page 13 of Not With the Eyes

"I think all the assumptions those words imply are the greatest insult you've levied on me yet."

"Sorry, you only get one apology kiss, if that's what you're angling for."

Scones laughed. "Wouldn't dare dream of it."

The words were exactly the reply Oberon had expected, yet something about them sent the back of his neck tingling all the same, like something was off about them, even though he couldn't begin to imaginewhat. They were as innocuous as innocuous could be.

Maybe he was just tired. Probably he was just tired. At the counter, he went through all the usual pleasantries and then finally presented the confirmation number he'd been emailed.

"One moment," the clerk said with a smile.

A moment later, her face fell.

Oh, great, because this trip hadn't been long enough.

"I'm so sorry, sir, but it looks like there was a booking mistake, and we've only got one room for you, instead of the two requested."

As mistakes went, that was barely worth Oberon's time. "That's fine, as long as the payment is adjusted."

"The difference and half off the new total. I apologize for our mistake," she said, and slid their keys across the desk. "Enjoy your stay."

Oberon stuffed the keys, really just little wooden fobs with chips inside, into his pocket and followed Scones back out to the car. Grabbing their belongings, they headed up to the third floor and all the way down the hall to their room just two doors from the end.

As he opened the door, the scent of citrus cleaners washed over him, chased by eucalyptus. The room was dark, but lights came on as they walked further into the room. Scones immediately went to the enormous, room-length windows and snapped the curtains shut.

"I guess that's a reasonable paranoia for a professional sniper," Oberon said, though he had been going to do the same thing. He put his bags on the luggage stand—and only then registered the mistake he'd made when just accepting the single room.

There was only one bed. Not two. He'd reserved singles, and forgotten to request a double, and the clerk hadn't thought of it either.

Sighing, he pulled out what he needed for a shower and headed into the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind him.

Thankfully,thispart of their stay was perfect. There was an enormous shower with a frosted glass sliding door, a bathtub that ran that fine line between bath and jacuzzi, and every other luxury he could possibly require.

Setting his toiletry bag on the counter, he pulled out what he needed, put it in the shower, and then turned on the water to let it heat up. Thankfully, that was as perfect as every other component of the bathroom, and moments later he was cheerfully boiling himself, letting the steam carry some of his tensions away.

When he finally could not stay in the hot water any longer without getting lightheaded, he climbed out, toweled off, and head back out to the main room.

Scones looked up from where he was typing away on the computer he'd pulled up—and froze, eyes going wide, cheeks going damn near as red as his hair. He snapped his gaze back to the computer, swearing softly as he fumbled his typing.

Oberon rolled his eyes, pulled boxers and a t-shirt from his bag, and dressed. He toweled his hair as he located the controls for the TV screen, which flickered to life as a large rectangular screen hovering over the bureau that took up most of the space against the far wall. He flicked to the news, unsurprised when the screen filled with pictures of Scones, from his days in the military through his career working directly for the G.O.D. and a smattering of shots taken after he'd retired and had been spending time with his mother, or at least spending time in her vicinity.

"Did they go through and find the worst possible fucking pictures of me?" Scones asked, groaning as yet another militarypicture flashed, this one with him covered in dirt and blood. "Who the fuck even took that picture?"

"You're remarkably naïve for a professional murderer," Oberon said. "Of course they're picking the worst possible pictures, and that image is probably a composite that's been further doctored."

"Not that doctored, if at all," Scones said sourly. "I remember that mission. It went south. Like, all the way to Antarctica and started digging south. That blood all over my face belonged to my commanding office that'd I'd just stabbed in the throat. Do not stand in the path of arterial spray unless you want to know what a mouthful of hot blood tastes like." He made a face, some of the lovely color leeching from his skin. "I resigned about three months after that, and I'd have done it sooner, but we were in the middle of a fucking jungle with no way out but to fight through."

Oberon's brows rose. "I'm genuinely impressed you're not a fucking psychopath."

"Who says I'm not?" Scones muttered as he turned back to his computer. "Doesn't look like there's been any suspicious activity at the storage place."

"Or they're smart enough to keep it off camera."

Scones snorted. "That would be really fucking impressive, given the number of cameras I installed. They're all up and running, no one has found any of them and destroyed them. Guess we'll see." He turned off the computer and stood. "If you're good for the bathroom, I'm going to take my turn at a shower. Did you leave any hot water?"

Oberon laughed. "It's a hotel; they don't really run out."

"I think they didn't plan for you."

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