His palm slid across Danny’s. Rough skin to rough skin. It caught something in his chest, hitched a cautionary note.

  That bruised but functional eye opened. A line of brown, a glint of feverish black.

  Danny’s free hand rose. Locked in Jonas’s shaggy hair, fingers tight against his scalp. Jonas sucked in a breath. His heart shot into his dick so fast, he couldn’t even form a warning if he tried.

  “Knew it,” Danny rasped, this side of a groan. “Knew you wouldn’t leave me. Green eyes.”

  Oh, whispered something raw and needy in Jonas’s mind. Shit.

  HE WASN’T ALONE. Danny stared into eyes a cross between brown and green, a muddy kind of emerald that didn’t reflect so much as draw him deeper in. Dark enough to promise all kinds of interesting things. They glimmered at him from behind a pair of rimless glasses, perched crookedly on a straight, thin nose that fit the rest of his narrow face.

  His mystery angel wasn’t a large man. No club rat with a gym fetish, no vain boy-toy looking for a sweet deal. Hollows under pronounced cheekbones suggested that, like his grandmother, Jonas needed frequent reminders to eat, but to Danny’s eyes, they only made him look like something sculpted by an artist. Sleek, made of angles and intriguing edges. His hair, brown like he’d said, fell in an unkempt line around his ears, skimmed the nape of his neck in a fashion that told him food wasn’t the only thing Jonas didn’t pay attention to.

  The man wasn’t pretty. But Danny was damned tired of pretty. He wanted substance. He wanted sparks, intelligence, laughter.

  Need.

  He wasn’t imagining it. He wasn’t. There was something buried in those eyes. Even as his body began to shake from the strain, as his brain struggled to remain conscious through the agony tearing through it, Danny could sense it.

  Jonas hadn’t left him. His angel was here.

  And he—well, now was definitely not his best look.

  “Danny.”

  He sucked in a hard breath. It hurt too damned much to feel anything but pain, but the sound of his name on Jonas’s tongue soothed across his senses like a balm.

  “Danny, let me go.” His voice gentled. “You need to rest. I won’t go anywhere, kid, but you have to let me go.”

  Belatedly, Danny realized he still cupped the back of Jonas’s head. That his fingers tingled beneath the feather-light whisper of the other man’s nearly baby-fine hair.

  He let go, flinching as his bloody, filthy hand came away. “Sorry,” he mumbled. So hard to frame it. “Where are we?”

  “A safe house. We’re waiting on a friend.”

  Unbidden, unwanted, a surge of heat climbed into his throat. Danny forced his eyes open, his mouth twisting. “What kind of friend?”

  It was embarrassing how easily the man could shift his weight, forcing Danny back down. “A friend,” he repeated calmly. But his lashes—a thick fringe, Danny realized with a sharp longing he didn’t know what to do with—flickered. “Behave, or I’m going to let you go.”

  His fingers tightened. Held on to Jonas’s hand until he registered the man’s wince.

  Shifting his jaw, he forced himself to relax. To settle back down, ease his grip. He let out a shuddering breath. “Okay.”

  “Okay,” the other man repeated. A warm hand covered his eyes. “Seriously, kid, take a break. You did good out there.”

  “No.” Danny kept his eyes closed as the hand lifted. Even his eyelashes hurt. “If I’d been doing my best, they never would have gotten Parker.”

  A smile warmed his rescuer’s already magical tenor. “We got her back. Just like we got you.”

  “You can keep me,” he murmured before his brain could censor it.

  The hand in his spasmed.

  He couldn’t help the flicker of amusement, the faint tug at his mouth, but before he could say anything, do anything, he heard the door open. It hit the wall.

  “Jonas!” A feminine voice. One filled with impatience, worry. Relief. “Jesus fuck.”

  Jonas’s hand disengaged, and Danny didn’t have to look to know he’d pushed to his feet and circled the couch to greet the woman with that husky voice.

  A person had to earn the right to sound like that. To display that kind of intimacy.

  Disappointment crashed into him like a wave. Exhaustion filled the rest.

  Everything hurt. Including, strangely enough, his heart.

  “Hey, Nai.”

  Danny opened his eyes in time to see Jonas wrap his arms around a truly stunning woman. Whatever tiny flame of hope that flickered through the doubt crushing what was left of his body guttered. And died.

  That friend had the kind of face made for the entertainment feeds.

  High cheekbones, firm chin, a mouth lush enough to tempt even a gay man to at least consider the merits of the opposite sex. Danny could admit it: she was a knockout. From her Asian features to her long legs encased in skintight denim. Even the magenta streaks in her shoulder-length black hair, lip and eyebrow rings, nose piercing, and—he ground his teeth—street-ready clothing that fit her like a very intimate glove didn’t take away from her appeal.

  Danny hated her.

  Which wasn’t fair, but fuck it. He hurt too much to be fair.

  Setting his jaw, he grabbed the back of the couch with one hand and pulled himself up, inch by excruciating inch.

  Just in time to meet the most exotic eyes he’d ever seen. Nearly purple, they locked on to his over Jonas’s shoulder, flared once, and narrowed as her full mouth twisted into a crooked grin. “Easy, kiddo,” she said, stepping away from Jonas’s embrace.

  That’s right, Danny thought in silent challenge. His throat closed. “You don’t get to say that to me.”

  “Danny—”

  The woman Jonas called Nai snorted a laugh too sharp to be called ladylike, but real humor glinted in her eyes as she unhooked a bag from her shoulder and tossed it to the floor. The couch thudded beneath him. “Relax,” she said, though Danny wasn’t sure to which one of them.

  He glared at her, sucking down air, fingers white-knuckled in the couch fabric.

  Jonas shook his head. “This is Danny,” he said, turning. “Danny, Naomi West.”

  “Missionary—”

  “Ex,” Jonas corrected, his grin flickering in his eyes as he pointed at her. “Don’t you forget it.”

  It was taking everything he had to remain sitting up. Danny couldn’t force the words out, but he didn’t have to. Naomi did it for him. “I’m on your team,” she told him.

  He doubted that.

  “Or,” she amended as she circled the couch, “I’m on Jonas’s team.” Again, a grin. This one was all teeth, white and even. She met his glare, matched it with a cocked eyebrow that glittered in the lamp light. “Jonas, you didn’t tell me the kid was so spiky.”

  “You like them spiky,” came his reply, but Danny’s gaze flicked aside. Studied the man whose voice didn’t sound right.

  Too cheerful. Too light.

  “What’s wrong?” he demanded.

  “Nothing.”

  “Liar.” His mouth wasn’t taking direction anymore.

  As alarm guttered a nanosecond after the accusation, Naomi rocked back on her heels, her hands going to her hips. Her shirt—some kind of neoprene material made of straps—stretched over her chest as she laughed outright. “Somebody’s got your number.”

  “Oh, shut up.” But there was no heat in Jonas’s reply. No sting.

  And he wouldn’t meet Danny’s eyes.

  Instead, he walked to the foot of the couch, and with a start, Danny realized he limped.

  No, not quite. He hobbled.

  Eyes widening, gut churning through pain and into shock, Danny watched as his mystery angel braced a thin, faintly scarred hand on the edge of the couch by Danny’s shoulder, lowered himself with effort, and picked up a pair of crutches from the floor.

  He didn’t remember doing it. Couldn’t recall telling himself to do it. All he knew was that his hand was suddenly on Jonas’s, bloody fingers tight around his.

  Jonas froze.

  “Are you okay?” It came out rougher than Danny meant. Worried. Thick with too many emotions, too many feelings all wrapped up in one place. Pain and anger and fear and doubt. Exhaustion battled them all.

  For a split second, something raw and dark opened up behind the man’s mixed brown-green eyes.

  And just like that, it was gone. Jonas pulled his hand away, fussed with the crutches. “You’re in shock, kid,” he said, his gaze touching Danny’s. Skating away. “You’re practically bleeding out of your ears over there. Nai, can you help him?”

  The woman stirred, and Danny’s head whipped around to meet a gaze that didn’t bother hiding her interest. Or her challenge. “Hell, yeah. It’ll take a while to kick in, though, so I’ll start now and then come back in a couple days when he’s able to move and we’ll get him somewhere safe.”

  “Good. How long do you need?”

  “I need you out of my hair,” she replied easily. “Why don’t you let me do my heretical thing?”

  “Baby, you say all the sweetest things,” Jonas tossed over his shoulder. “I’m going to go get some supplies. Don’t burn the place down, okay?”

  “Can’t promise.”

  Danny tracked him as he crossed the floor, blinked hard at the front door as it closed behind him.

  What did he just miss?

  Fabric rustled as Naomi crouched beside him. “You look like hell.” Abrupt. No coddling.

  A missionary, huh?

  He let himself fall back on the cushions, every muscle in his body giving up the ghost with a groan. “Go away,” he told her, knowing it came out petulant as hell and unable to help it.

  And damned if her eyes didn’t light up. Laughter? She folded her arms on her bent knees, head tilting. Her tongue slid out over the ring pierced through the middle of her lower lip before she offered, “So, here’s the deal, Danny. I’m here ’cause I have this ability to heal things. Broken things.” An eyebrow cocked. “Like you.”

  “You’re a witch.” It wasn’t quite a question, but then, Danny knew enough not to be surprised by witchcraft. His own grandmother had the blood. Not that she told people that.

  “Yeah, and right now, Jonas wants me to help you.” Her tone didn’t soften. Hell, it barely qualified as friendly. “I don’t know what kind of game you’ve got going for you, but it’s going to suffer if you can’t even sit up without help.”

  “I’m not—” Danny blinked. “Game? What?”

  Naomi’s smile took already breathtaking features and shot her natural beauty straight into the stratosphere. Piercings or not, the woman was a menace. “So close your eyes. Sleep, if you can. Makes my life easier.”

  She reached out. Danny caught her hand, but it took effort. Too much. Even moving his arm that much caused fresh sweat to break out across his chest and shoulders.

  To her credit—and okay, maybe she’d earned some—she didn’t pull away. She just watched him, a steady kind of stare that told Danny everything he needed to know about her own confidence. Her strength.

  A missionary and a witch.

  He’d ask Jonas about her. Later. Much later, when he figured out how to ease the hurt he’d seen in the other man’s eyes.

  “Why?” he demanded.

  “I’m asked to help, I help.” But that wicked mouth twisted. Not quite a smile. Not quite a frown. “And you remind me of someone I know. I think he’d like it if I gave his younger self a leg up.”

  He couldn’t stop himself. “Who?”

  Without so much as batting an eyelash, Naomi disengaged from his grip, caught his hand and set it lightly on the couch beside him. She didn’t even flinch at the filth coating his hands. “Maybe you’ll meet him one day” was all she said.

  Then her other hand settled over his eyes, cool and gentle, and Danny could have sworn that the ache in his battered flesh began to fade.

  Wishful thinking, maybe.

  “I can’t magically knit you up,” she told him. He listened, but the cadence of her voice settled into his head like a lullaby. Lulling. Soothing. “I can start the process, and you’ll heal a lot faster this way, but it still has to go through the steps. Don’t do anything stupid.”

  “’Kay,” he murmured.

  “Sleep as much as you can. Just do me a favor, kiddo.” Her voice whispered across his senses. Magic? He wouldn’t even know how to tell.

  “What?”

  “Go easy on him. He’s handled a lot of shit for us.”

  Danny let out a long, slow breath, aware of a knot loosening somewhere in his gut. His chest. “You know that I—” That he what? Liked the man?

  Wanted him to like Danny back?

  “Hell, no,” she chuckled. “I don’t know shit about shit, on average.” Her other hand settled over his heart, and suddenly Danny’s eyes grew heavy under her palm. He fought back a yawn. “But I know what I see when I see it. Sleep, Danny. You’re safe.”

  As he drifted off, lulled into complacency by her husky voice and some sense of relief, she murmured something that sounded suspiciously like, “Christ, he’s young.”

  Chapter Five

  * * *

  FIFTEEN HOURS OF uninterrupted sleep left Danny feeling disoriented, but Jonas had been there with a cup of soup when he awoke. An hour later put Jonas at his side once more, changing bandages, checking the progress of whatever it was Naomi had done. He’d been able to shower and shave, despite the fine tremor that made holding a razor near his bruised flesh a dubious prospect at best.

  He’d been handed a bag, found a pair of his own jeans, a T-shirt, socks and underwear, and an old sweatshirt patched at the elbows packed inside it. Bless Grams. He’d never been so grateful to find a new toothbrush. Or so embarrassed when he found a handful of condoms and lubrication in a side pocket.

  He hoped his grandmother hadn’t checked the contents of the bag before repacking it for him.

  Dressing tapped the last of his reserves. Staggering back out into the living room, he all but tumbled face-first into the sofa.

  “Go back to sleep,” Jonas ordered gently. “You need it.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can.” His eyes crinkled with a smile. “I’ll be right here.”

  And because Jonas had been right there, sitting on the floor by Danny’s shoulder as he flicked through the feeds on a portable monitor, Danny obeyed.

  When he awoke five hours later, it was to an empty apartment.

  Dread sent him bolt upright, a soft blue blanket sliding to the floor as he grabbed the edges of the couch. “Jonas?” His voice broke through the shadows of the room, battered at the hazy, panic-ridden images of his dreams.

  There was no answer. No easy smile, no quiet, reassuring clatter of keys.

  Danny shook his head, too aware of the silence. Of a dull rushing noise in his ears, of his rising terror.

  Splaying a hand across his chest, he traced the outlines of bandages. They constricted his ribs as he took a deep breath, banded tightly enough that he wondered if he’d broken a few after all. His ribs twinged, reminding him exactly why he lay on an unfamiliar couch, in an unfamiliar room. But as he raised that hand to his face, he felt only the angles of his own jaw. His cheek. No pain, no swelling.

  And he could see completely out of both eyes.

  “Holy—” He swallowed the word that would get him swatted by his grandmother, raking his hand through his hair instead. Without the gel he used to push it back from his face, it fell over his forehead in a spiky fringe.

  He was whole. He was free, and he was alive. Progress.

  “Jonas?” He swung his legs off the couch, and when nothing in his body threatened to implode, rose to his feet. Easier than he expected.

  Nothing moved. The monitor he vaguely remembered watching over Jonas’s shoulder remained dark. Empty.

  Abandoned. Danny blew out a breath, turned away from the empty kitchenette.

  Light seamed out from under the bathroom door.

  Relief nearly stole the balance he’d managed to find. His ears weren’t blowing static at him; the shower was on. Now he could hear it for what it was, place the sound behind that door. Streaming water, a dull rush of it. Jonas must be in there.

  As if all his body needed was that final signal, a clean bill of health, a picture of the man rose in Danny’s mind. His brown hair slicked back by a steady rain, his glasses no longer a shield over those dark green eyes. Water would be sliding down his bare chest, streaming across his narrow shoulders, his pale skin.

  Caressing him everywhere Danny could only—

  “Jesus!” He sank back to the couch, one hand closing over the front of his jeans. Adjusting himself before his sudden erection caused real damage against his tight zipper, he blew out another long breath and forced his gaze away from the bathroom door.

  Go easy on him.

  Jonas wasn’t the problem here.

  It’d been a long time since he’d felt lust at first sight. Longer still since he’d made a complete idiot of himself over a guy.

  He still didn’t even know if Jonas was the type of man who would even be into him. Most of the time, he could ask. It was a straightforward game, one he’d gotten pretty good at. But somehow, he couldn’t work up the nerve.

  Are you gay?

  No, it wasn’t that easy. Not after he’d already stuck his clumsy fingers into an open wound. Danny dropped his face into his hands. How insensitive could he be? The man used crutches, he hobbled like it hurt to walk, and Danny had drawn attention to it. Are you okay?

  Like an idiot.

  The shower cut off.

  Danny jerked upright, wincing as his side pulled. Not nearly as bad as it was only—he looked for a clock, found one next to the monitor and calculated fast—twenty-one hours ago. A hell of a lot better than he had any right to expect. Naomi’s “heretical thing” felt like it’d saved him weeks of pain.

  He’d take it, and thank her later.

  Danny rose to his feet, straightened his wrinkled sweatshirt and padded to the kitchenette rather than wait for Jonas to come out of the shower. Like some kind of creep.