Page 3 of Fake Fae-Ancée

Squeak!

My panties were gone! Apart from the bulky shirt I wasn’t wearing a thing.

Nada. Niente. Birthday suit.

Dizziness made my eyes throb. I calculated the odds. Considering how little I was wearing and how little/nothing he was wearing, and how close together we had slept — chances were that the snoring jerk had seen me shirtless. Or worse!

What the hell had happened, yesterday?

…and how had I gotten here, now that we were talking about it?

I took in my surroundings. The bedroom was Kalinin through and through. A lot of space filled with nothing. White, naked walls, a wide, rectangular window, bright daylight seeping through stone-colored curtains. Gray, fluffy teddy-fur carpet under my bare thighs. In the middle of the room was one king-sized bed with tawdry bachelor bedding — and currently occupied with one tawdry bachelor who was scratching his impressive abs in his sleep.

No, wait. Not bachelor. No idea what pompous crown princes who had left their inheritance behind in the native tundra to play private detective in the capitalist West were called these days. My term for Kalinin was shorter.

"Jerk," I mouthed and rose with wobbly knees.

I just realized again how different he looked. The revolutionary hipster-beard was gone, only stubble covering his face. His once curly hair was now trimmed into an accurate and very corporate side cut. A luscious mop of chestnut hair flopped halfway across his relaxed face. He looked like a sleeping mobster. He'd had that new look ever since that thing in France a few months ago. When I had told him to finally leave me the fuck alone and go to hell.

You know, the usual.

My gaze lingered on his massive forearm, now resting on the empty spot on the sheets where I had slept. It was covered with bandages. Up close I hadn’t noticed. The same patches we had used back in the EDF, in medical training, to treat cuts, moderate wounds and such. It didn't look very professional. As if the person dressing the wound had been in a hurry. Or sloppy. Or both. Also typical for him.

Just a few weeks ago, he'd gotten himself injured when he had last interfered with one of my assignments.

Because that’s what Kalinin did, as consulting detective for P.A.S.H. — listening to the police scanner and interfering with ongoing investigations. Chief Taggart insisted he was just assisting the force. The way I saw it, Kalinin always showed up on the scene just as I was about to take down a Breacher, and then stole my kills. Or tried to. There was a tally sheet hanging at the precinct that a couple of smirking colleagues had been keeping for years. With my name on it, and Kalinin’s, and a tally for all the Breachers he and I had bagged. Most of the time he was in the lead.

He obviously didn't care if he got hurt or not, that damn moron.

I ignored the sting of worry. It wasn’t any of my business what Kalinin did, whether he wrestled with Cavetrolls or Category 4 Breachers, or whether he woke up in the mornings with the brilliant idea to juggle burning chainsaws. Nothing this insufferable jerk did was any of my concern.

My concern should be to get out of here.

I found my uniform on the carpet in a messy pile. No panties, as I noticed with some annoyance, but I had no time to do a thorough search without waking him. So I slipped into my trusty uniform cargo pants as I was. No one is confident without their pants on. And I needed every shred of confidence I could get.

Only now did I notice that every bone in my body was aching. Especially my shoulders and upper back. I stifled a groan, stretching my neck. The space between my shoulder blades felt as if someone had used it as a punching bag, muscles wailing in pain as if they’d been sliced open. Overall I felt like I had been flattened by a train last night.

I wracked my brain for any lucid memory of yesterday. Think, Kayleen. Think, damn it! Had I been in a fight or something?

Okay, okay. Focus…

It had been an ordinary Friday, that much I remembered. I had punched my alarm clock into silence at exactly 6:07 A.M. Then had chocolate pops and an energy drink for breakfast. Charly and Gabe had still been asleep when I’d sneaked out of the apartment.

Tiny had called in sick, so I'd had to pull our shift alone. Not that the chief hadn't been pissed off enough. But as far as I remembered, it had been a slow day in the precinct. Lots of paperwork, the usual grind. It had been already dark outside when the dispatch order had come in...

I blinked. My head throbbed. A dispatch order. Right. And then?

I ran a hand down my face. In my mind's eye, I saw myself getting into the car. Throwing my sword and belt on the passenger seat. I’d confirmed my mission by radio. Then driven off.

And that was it.

Blackout.

I blinked again as my head throbbed even harder. No memory of the rest.

And there was something else missing. Like something that was very, very important, but that I couldn't put my finger on.

No use to overthink it now. Getting out of here had the higher priority. I willed the headache away and resumed my search.

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