The Arrangement (Omegas of Hunter's Point Book 1)

Chapter 21

The last few blocks felt like miles, the walk up the stairs interminable. Fancy had remembered to lock the door, at least. Von fumbled with her key until the lock gave.

"Fancy?" she called, rushing into the dark apartment, her stomach summersaulting. The lights shouldn't be off. She hit the switch and the overhead lights droned to life. "Fancy, where are you?"

Bathroom, empty. Kitchen, empty. Their shared bedroom was empty, too, Fancy's bed still neatly made. Where the hells was she?

Von's phone buzzed and tinkled with a notification, a text from an unknown number:

>Hey, Von. My phone died. It was just a drunk who had the wrong apartment. Stan scared him off.

Her fingers flew over the digital letter keys. > Are you okay?

>Yeah, I'm staying at Stan's tonight.

Oh, thank gods. Von swayed on her feet, coming to rest against the bedroom doorway. She rubbed her forehead. "Fancy's okay. She's with Stan."

"Who's Stan?" Damian asked from the living room.

"Some guy she just met a couple months ago." Although, a couple months was a rather lengthy romance in Fancy World. This guy must be pretty special to keep her attention this long. How Fancy formed such intense connections to guys she didn't really know had always fascinated Von.

She joined Damian in the living room as the sounds of a boisterous quarrel and breaking glass filtered up to them from downstairs, causing Von's shoulders to tense.

"Maybe you should come back with me," Damian suggested.

"Can't. If I leave the apartment empty overnight, it'll get robbed." She rubbed the bridge of her nose, feeling the telltale throbbing of a headache coming on. "Again."

"Well, I'm sure as hells not leaving you alone, here, so if you're staying, I am, too," Damian declared, "unless you have a 'no boys allowed' rule."

They did, but it probably wouldn't matter this once. "Do you mind the couch?"

Damian shook his head.

Von noted the blood on his shirt with dismay. "Take that off. If I pretreat it now, it won't stain."

Damian stripped off his shirt almost too eagerly and handed it to Von, who was doing her best not to stare.

"Sit down at the table. We should see to that cut, too." Von set the shirt to soak, oddly grateful for the life experience that necessitated she know how to get blood out of almost any fabric, though it was usually her own. Then, she took down two cups and busied herself making tea. As the tea steeped, she added a generous helping of honey to each cup.

***

Shirtless, Damian sat patiently at the kitchen table, the extent of the tattoo on his shoulder now fully visible. It was a series of twisting and intersecting lines in a design that coalesced and fanned out down one bicep, across his collarbone, and disappeared from sight down the back that leaned against the wooden chair. He'd always liked the tattoo. The darkness of the ink contrasted with the warm bronze color of his skin and lent to a very pleasing aesthetic. He still remembered his father's blustering, almost incoherent, anger at the sight of it.

"The tea smells good." He reached up to take his cup, but before he did, Von made sure he saw her take a good-faith sip from it, the meaning behind that small gesture making him smile.

"It's just chamomile." She retrieved the well-stocked first-aid kit from its place beneath the kitchen sink and placed it on the table in front of Damian.