At my flippant tone, she returned her attention to the road. I remembered the way she’d held me as that deadly potion flooded the room. The tears in her eyes when she thought I’d died. The way she’d blushed as she stared up at me once we were safe.

Maybe she didn’t hate me for being an anarchical mythic criminal flouting the MPD’s benevolent rule. At least, she didn’t hate me as much.

“Lienna …” Actually, nope. Never mind.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“What were you going to say?” she persisted.

“Forget it.” It’d been a dumb idea anyway. No way she’d agree.

Taking a hand off the wheel, she lightly smacked my shoulder. “Just tell me, would you? I don’t have the nerves for any more suspense.”

Did she want to know that badly? I slumped in my seat. “I was going to ask if we could make one stop before you throw me back in jail.”

“For burgers?” she quipped, annoyance creeping into her tone.

“No.” Not that I’d ever say no to burgers. “To … my apartment.”

Her brown eyes shot toward me.

“You see, rent is due in a couple of days. When I don’t pay, my landlord will pitch out all my stuff. There are a few things …” I let out another heavy breath. “A few things I really don’t want to lose. For, you know, the day in seventy or eighty years when MagiPol finally lets me out of prison.”

Ideally, I could recover my items once I escaped custody, but I was down three for three opportunities and I wasn’t sure if I’d get another one.

She eyed me suspiciously. “Where’s your apartment?”

I arched an eyebrow. “Nuh-uh. Not gonna tell you that unless you agree to take me there. Otherwise, you’ll just raid my shit after I’m locked up again.”

“Why didn’t you take this stuff with you when you fled the country?”

“Didn’t have time, and also didn’t know if I already had bounty hunters on my tail. I didn’t want to lead them home. I was going to have my landlord mail my stuff to me.”

For a price. A hefty one, knowing that greedy asshole, but I could’ve afforded it—before MagiPol confiscated the contents of my bank account.

She nervously ran her hands up and down the steering wheel, then blew out a breath, her hair fluttering away from her face. “Which way?”

I straightened, staring at her. “Seriously? You’ll do it?”

She glared at me. “If you try anything, I’ll teleport your limbs to the bottom of the ocean.”

“Which limbs?”

“All of them.”

“Oh, well, in that case … take a left here.”

I directed her across downtown and into Coal Harbour, a ritzy neighborhood with towering condo buildings that overlooked long beaches and the ocean-gray inlet. We pulled into the circular drive of a particularly tall and glass-walled structure, and she parked in a visitor stall.

“You live here?” she asked. “No way. You’re leading me into an ambush.”

I pushed the door open. “Nope. This is where I live—or lived. Scout’s honor.”

She shut off the car, pocketed the keys, and followed me to the door with one hand in her satchel. How much did I want to bet she was holding a stun-marble, ready to fling it into my back and send me crashing into unconsciousness for a second time today?

Just inside, the doorman sat behind his desk. He glanced up at our appearance and offered a professional smile. “Welcome home, Mr. Morris.”

“Thanks, Hardy. I lost my keys. Can you let me into my apartment?”

“Sure thing.” Jumping up, he went ahead of us and hit the elevator call button. The doors chimed and opened. Lienna was stepping on my heels as I walked in alongside Hardy. He pressed his key fob to the panel inside, then selected the eleventh floor. The door closed, and the elevator rushed upward.

Lienna’s glower singed holes in the back of my head the whole way up.

With another chime, the doors opened, and Hardy led the way down a carpeted hall with numbered doors. At 1106, he unlocked the bolt.

“Have a nice evening, Mr. Morris. And let me know if you need a new key.”

“You bet,” I said as he retreated toward the elevator, then pushed the door open.

The familiar scent of home, underlaid with the mustiness of a room that’d been closed up for too long, hit me hard. I walked in, sighing as my gaze traveled across the open floor plan with its spacious kitchen, large living room with a wide electric fireplace, and floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the harbor.

“Fancy,” Lienna observed acidly. “Crime pays well, doesn’t it?”

I shrugged, too tired to come up with a good retort.

“Go get your things, then,” she snapped. “We aren’t staying.”

Not bothering to remove my shoes—it wasn’t like I’d ever return here to be annoyed about grit on the glossy hardwood—I headed for the short hall. Three doors waited, and I opened the center one to enter my bedroom. It was large and airy, with a king-sized bed that faced more tall windows.

I crossed to the nightstand beside the bed, but when I squatted down to reach for the low shelf at its base, Lienna appeared at my shoulder.

“Hold it!” She crouched, elbowing me aside, and peered at the contents of the shelf. Her wary squint faltered. “Those are—”

I reached past her and pulled the handful of books out. As I straightened, she shot up too, her glare undiminished.

“Books?” she said accusingly. “That’s what you came for?”

“Yep.”

“What’s special about them? Are they valuable?”

To me, yeah. To anyone else, not one bit. “If you’re worried, see for yourself.”

I dumped them into her arms, taking her by surprise, then strode into the walk-in closet. Most of it was empty. My clothes were lined up along the nearest wall, neatly arranged on hangers.

As I flipped through the garments, she opened a tattered copy of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, frowning at the expected and mundane story inside. When she looked up again, I was halfway out of my shirt.

“What are you doing?” she asked shrilly.

“Changing. Clean clothes. It’s nice, you know?” I pulled the shirt over my head, dropped it on the floor, and shook out a dark blue tee. “I can enjoy it for a few minutes before I’m back in a jumpsuit.”

Her mouth opened and closed as I slid on the clean shirt, tugged the hem down, then toed off my shoes. When I unbuckled my belt, her stare jumped back to the books she held. She raised the Mark Twain paperback and frowned at the leather-bound Bible beneath it.

“I thought you weren’t religious,” she began, lifting her gaze—right as I pushed the MPD-issued torture-boxers down my hips.

Her eyes bulged, and I almost snorted. I was pretty sure she looked away before spotting the goods, but she still wobbled with bashful shock as though I’d started pole dancing. The stack of books she held tipped dangerously.

“Don’t drop those,” I warned as I slid on a clean pair of boxer-briefs. Ah, so much better. “And I’m not religious.”

“Then why do you have a Bible?” she asked, staring at the floor, cheeks flaming.