Chapter 17

SEVENTEEN

Paris was dreaming about the ocean again. He was sitting on his favorite bench outside their condo building, watching the sun sink toward the horizon and the fog roll in. Below him, waves crashed against the cliffs, misting his face with sea spray and shaking the earth beneath his feet.

Shaking him.

"Come on, Paris. Wake up."

He opened his eyes to reality. No ocean, but an equally beautiful sight.

"There he is," Mac said as he kneeled beside him.

The morning sun streamed in through the window over his shoulder, and Paris squinted. "What time is it?"

"Early. Sorry about the sun," he said with a flick of his fingers at the glowing ball of light behind him. Brighter than Paris could ever remember seeing in his life. "This side of the house faces east."

Peeling himself off the folders and papers, scattering some onto the floor, Paris propped an elbow on the desk to hold up his tired head and eked his eyes open wider, taking in the man before him. "You haven't slept." By now, Paris recognized the signs of a sleepless raven. "Long night?"

Hand on his knee, Mac lifted his dark gaze, and it swam with empathy, his aura pulsing indigo, brighter even than Liam's had that day at the cabin.

The rest of Paris's reality clicked into place, his heart drowning with it. "Is he?—"

"Kai was right. Jason became a phoenix."

"How?"

"We don't know that yet. We'll ask him when he's conscious again. Kai's with him until then."

Reality shifted again, and Paris spun the chair to face Mac, sending more folders and papers to the floor. "Wait, Jason's alive? And Kai?"

"They're both alive," Mac said with a wide smile. "Was touch and go with Jason for a bit, but he should make—" Paris launched himself out of the chair and into Mac's arms. "Oof!"

Paris couldn't hold in the tears; with Mac, he thankfully didn't have to. He'd cried in his arms before, overcome with relief the morning he'd learned of his father's death. Relief racked his body again, but today, relief felt completely different. Before, his relief had been from fear, from his tormentor; a freedom Paris had never experienced, living under his abusive father's fist for twenty plus years. Today's relief was the opposite, steeped in love for the chosen family still with him and in gratitude for Mac and his team who'd rescued them. There weren't enough thank you s in the world, but Paris tried to give them all to Mac, a litany between broken breaths, as Mac leaned them against the desk and ran a hand up and down his spine, gentling him with soothing words.

But fast on the heels of relief came the overwhelming, shifting realities of the past two weeks. One of his best friends was a raven, the other was a phoenix, and he was just a human —in a world, a life, that was barely recognizable. In the arms of a different raven he wanted to get to know better. Where was his place anymore? With Kai and Jason, or with Mac and his team, or without any of them? How could he be anything but a burden to them all?

The questions, the doubts, stole his breath and left him gasping for air.

"Hey, hey, hey," Mac soothed as he held his face in his hands, his dark gaze inviting and calm, same as his words. "Breathe, Paris. Just breathe." A little gulp in. "They're fine." A slightly bigger gulp. "They're still your best friends." A full inhale. "And you can see them when it's safe." And finally, a deep one as Mac's thumbs swiped the tears from under his eyes.

"But Kai is safe with him?" he asked, voice wobbly.

"More than you can possibly know," he said, the same awe in his voice that had been there when Kai had arrived at the cabin. Tears pooled at the corners of his dark eyes, and when he hid them behind closed lids, a tear streaked down one cheek. He tilted forward, pressing their foreheads together. "That's how it's supposed to go."

Paris returned the earlier gesture, cupping his cheeks and offering comfort, whatever this man who'd saved him and his family needed. "What can I do? How can I help you?"

Mac's lower lip brushed against his. It was such a light touch, so soft and fleeting that Paris thought it incidental, but then Mac's lips pressed against his, firmer and longer, not an accidental brush. Paris was thrown into a tailspin, the desire that had been banked for days roaring to the surface. He hazarded a kiss back, and when Mac angled his face in Paris's hands so he could deepen it, Paris groaned and slid his hands into Mac's hair, clutching the dark strands when the tip of Mac's tongue teased his lips, asking for entrance. Paris didn't hesitate to open, to moan as Mac licked inside his mouth, tentative at first, but then growing in demand that fired every one of Paris's senses, that made him want to lie back and surrender all of himself.

Chasing that reality, he shifted in Mac's lap and tipped backward, taking Mac with him by the mouth, neither of them wanting to interrupt their greedy kisses. Mac threw out a hand to brace them on the way down—and planted on something that caused them to slip. He threw out the other hand, catching them before they hit the floor, laughter breaking their lips apart. Laughter Paris wanted to taste. But then Mac's gaze shifted to the side, catching on the thing that had caused them to slip.

The black-and-white photo of Mac and the other man.

Mac's laughter died, his skin paled, and he hastily untangled from Paris, scurrying to his feet so fast Paris nearly did hit the floor, only Mac's unerring manners saving him. "I'm sorry," he said as he helped Paris to his feet.

"Mac, wait."

"I need to get back to the team." He eyed the door like a man on fire. "We've got a lot to do before leaving for YB tonight."

He turned for the door, but Paris caught his wrist, halting his escape. "Thank you for bringing them back to me. They're the only real family I've ever had." Before you wanted to roll off his tongue, but he bit it back, letting the tug he made on their connection—their bond?—speak for him.

Mac's gaze snapped to his, then skittered away again. "They're valuable assets."

As Paris glanced again at the photo, he remembered Rena's advice—to trust what he felt and not let Mac push him away. No matter how their kiss had ended, it had been a breakthrough, especially for Mac who'd kept himself locked down—alone—for far too long. Taking Rena's advice, Paris pressed, a little. "That's not why you saved them, though, is it? You saved them for me." Paris lifted his hand and kissed the back of it. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he replied, voice barely a whisper, but the tug Paris felt in his own chest as Mac left the room was louder than the thunderous waves back home.

Paris woke from his nap to the sense of someone watching him. He was on his side in the guest bed in Mac's quarters, the busy late night and tumultuous early morning having caught up with him by midday. He couldn't say when someone had joined him, but he was certain he wasn't alone. And given the pattern of that someone's breaths, the pine and earthy scent he'd come to associate with him, and the warmth spreading through his chest, Paris had a pretty good idea who it was beside him. No idea why, though, after the way he and Mac had left things that morning.

Instead of jumping in there, Paris led with something easier, a joke to break the ice he hated around them. "Are you sure you're not a cat?" he said, not opening his eyes.

Mac chuckled. "Why would you think that?"

"You're like one of those domestic breeds. You know, the ones that wake their people up first thing in the morning by staring and pawing at them."

"Definitely not a cat. And it's definitely not morning."

Paris opened his eyes, meeting the dark ones across from him, then glanced past Mac and out the window, the waning sun casting the sky in hues of pink and purple.

"We're getting ready to head out," Mac said, drawing Paris's gaze back to him. "I didn't want to leave without saying goodbye. And without apologizing for earlier."

He hadn't had long to wallow after Mac had bolted that morning. Spying their uncle leave his office, Cherry and Abernathy had snuck in, apparently looking to raid the stash of candies Mac kept on top of his file cabinet. Finding Paris instead, they'd enlisted him in Operation Morning Sugar, first with the candies, then with the pancakes Liam was cooking in the kitchen. Paris had pitched in to help, the distraction welcome, as was Icarus when he'd appeared midmorning.

They hadn't needed to say anything, each of them swallowing the other in a hug. Holding tight. Theirs had initially been a transactional relationship, Icarus helping him feel not so lonely, Paris giving him what he'd needed to protect his sister, but friendship had grown between them. Icarus had been one of only a few people he'd been able to be himself around, and Paris had broken that trust, a betrayal—a mistake—that no matter what Mac said, he'd always feel guilty about. He'd tried to apologize, and Icarus had slapped a hand over his mouth and told him to "Shut it." Paris had been so shocked by the warmth and pulse he'd felt in his friend's hand that words had deserted him.

They'd deserted him again when a smiling Adam Devlin had joined them. He'd brought Kai with him, and if Paris had hugged Icarus hard, he hugged his best friend harder. He'd wanted to visit Jason too, but it wasn't safe for Paris to see him yet. He took their word for it but wanted a full accounting of the night's events, which Icarus had given in dramatic fashion, as was his way.

All of that activity and there'd been no Mac sightings. Had he eaten? Had he slept? When had he joined Paris in bed? And what did he have to be sorry for? "You don't have to apologize for anything," Paris said.

"I'm the one who initiated that kiss." His gaze strayed to Paris's lips a fleeting second before he flopped onto his back and stared at the ceiling. "I wanted it, even knowing it couldn't go anywhere."

He wanted it still if that ring of red bleeding into his usual aura of guilt and regret, empathy and grief was any indication. "Why can't it?" Paris asked, hoping for more of the story he'd only gotten glimpses of.

"I was in love once before."

"The man from the photo?"

"Hank," Mac said, his voice catching on the name. "He was my best friend." Pain streaked across his face, his brows furrowing and eyes slipping closed. "And I never told him."

Regret blew out every other emotion in his aura, and Paris reached across the inches between them, clasping Mac's hand. "I'm so sorry."

Mac swallowed hard and pressed on, like he needed to get the words out. "When my parents told us they were retiring, Hank told me I could do this. That I could be our clan's reaper."

"I'm sure he knew how strong you were, like I?—"

"He was the first name on my list."

"Oh shit."

Paris regretted the curse as soon as it escaped his lips, but then Mac chuckled, the sound watery but amused, and some of the tension in his grip eased. "Yeah, oh shit." He turned on his side to face Paris again, their hands still joined. "I can't go into YB tonight not knowing if either of us will make it out alive."

"Do you think it'll be that bad?"

"In Yerba Buena, it already is. Up here, I don't know. So far just some skirmishes along the Bay's north edge, but there are no guarantees the violence from YB won't spill over. It already did earlier this month with Icarus and Adam. They'll be with me in YB, but Liam and Rena and all of my family will stay here, Kai and Jason too, and some of Jenn's pack. We have to be prepared for anything."

"I'll be fine," Paris said, squeezing his hand.

And then Mac practically squeezed his heart, pulling their hands to his lips and kissing the back of Paris's, repeating his gesture from earlier. "I can't be the one who has to deliver you. I can't go through that again."

Did that mean he couldn't—wouldn't—ever go through love again either? Because it would be a shame for someone who loved others so completely, who risked and tortured his own soul and body to make sure others' were at peace, to keep himself from experiencing total love and devotion in return.

To never let Paris try to be that person because Paris was already sure Mac was that person for him. Paris wanted that shot, wanted to give Mac everything he deserved, including a second chance at love. But short of putting that declaration out into the world, which would not do Mac any good on a day he clearly already dreaded, Paris settled for putting another out there, the only one that truly mattered. "We're all getting through this day—alive."