And he was handsome.

She’d noticed it before. A million different times, it seemed. The high cut of his cheekbones. The full lips that so easily gave way to that subtle smile. Even the glasses, thickly framing his dark eyes, added an air of ease and sensitivity to his features that made her mouth run dry when she stopped to think about it.

She was beginning to think she might really be in trouble.

She followed Adrian through the lush foliage and drooping vines. He pushed aside the leaves of some prehistoric-looking plant, and there was a plain wooden door set into a plain white wall.

Nova glanced back one time, wishing she had taken the time to admire the statue, and the star—what she was beginning to think of as her star—before she crossed over the door’s threshold and returned to reality.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

NOVA FOLLOWED ADRIAN out of the basement and back up the narrow staircase, her mind churning as she tried to determine the likelihood of this being a trap.

Not much, she thought. She had been asleep for an entire night and day, and as uncomfortable as that made her, she had to admit that nothing had happened. She had not been attacked or captured.

And yet, her hackles wouldn’t lower, not completely. There was always a chance. A chance that Winston had finally revealed Nova’s identity, or that some incriminating evidence had been dredged up on her while she slept. Twenty-four hours was more than enough time for something to go wrong.

Adrian nudged open the door at the top of the stairs and Nova braced herself as she stepped into the imposing foyer again. The mansion, though, seemed as quiet and orderly as before.

She followed Adrian into a formal dining room, with wainscoting on the walls and a crystal chandelier dangling over a cherry wood table, which was large enough to seat twelve or more. Rather than being set with fine china and silver cutlery, the table was littered with newspapers, many still wrapped in rubber bands, and piles of junk mail, and two issues of Heroes Today magazine.

Adrian nudged his way through another door and the sounds of life engulfed Nova. Dishes clinking. A fan whirring. The steady beat of a knife against a cutting board.

The moment she stepped into the open-concept kitchen, her eyes darted not to the two men who were cooking, but to the large arched windows surrounding a casual breakfast nook, and a door that might have led to an exit … or maybe a pantry. To the block of kitchen knives on the granite countertop, and the cast-iron skillet simmering on the stove, and the row of bar stools that would shatter against Captain Chromium, but might be able to stun the Dread Warden if swung with sufficient force.

Once she had mapped out all possible exits and deduced enough potential weapons that she could feel confident she wasn’t powerless, not even here, she dared to greet her hosts.

Hugh Everhart extended a hand toward her, the other clutching a wooden spoon. “Nova, it was a nice surprise to hear you’d be joining us.”

She held her breath as she shook his hand, wondering first if her power would work against the invincible Captain Chromium.

Wondering second at what point Adrian had come up to inform his dads he had a guest. Was that before or after she had unofficially stayed the night?

Hugh gestured toward the bar, where Simon Westwood was chopping carrots into thin sticks.

“It’s just about done,” said Hugh, “but feel free to grab a snack while you wait.”

Simon nudged a plate in her direction, loaded with cherry tomatoes and strips of raw bell pepper. Nova’s attention, however, went to the massive chef’s knife in his hand. Then she took in his blue-checkered apron, which was so opposite of anything she’d ever imagined the Dread Warden would wear that for a moment she thought she might be dreaming. This was what dreams were like, right? Ridiculous and absurd and utterly implausible?

When she thought of these two superheroes, she always pictured them in the midst of a battle, usually one in which she was discovering some clever way to kill them both at once. Never had she pictured them at home, doing something as mundane as cooking dinner together.

“Adrian,” said Hugh, dumping the carrots onto the tray, “could you run down and grab another can of tomatoes from the pantry?”

“Sure,” said Adrian. Picking up a carrot stick, he crunched it in half as he pushed himself away from the bar. He shot Nova a quick, encouraging smile before he disappeared back through the door.

“The pantry is at the far end of the hall,” Simon said, arranging the vegetables on the plate. It took Nova a moment to realize he was talking to her. “Kind of a pain when you forget something halfway through a recipe. We keep meaning to clean out the broom closet”—he jutted his chin toward a narrow closed door—“and convert it into the new pantry, but somehow it always gets filled back up with superhero stuff.”

Nova’s thoughts were racing so fast she could barely understand him. Pantry? Canned tomatoes?

She tried to relax her shoulders. To even her breathing. To admit to herself that an attack was not imminent.

But she took a subtle side step to be closer to the block of knives, anyway. Just in case.

“I’m afraid this meal isn’t going to be up to our usual standards, at least for when we have a special guest,” said Hugh. He was standing over the stove, stirring a bubbling red sauce. “But it’s been a long day for us both, and we weren’t expecting to come home to company.” He looked sideways at Nova, his eyes twinkling almost mischievously.

“I wasn’t expecting to be served a homemade meal at all,” Nova said, her attention skipping from the tomato sauce to the colander of steaming spaghetti noodles in the sink to a skillet full of cooked ground beef.

“I hope you like Italian,” said Hugh. “You’re not vegetarian, are you?”

She shook her head and watched as he scraped the meat into the sauce.

“I love Italian food,” she said, trying to match their unprecedented normalcy. “My dad was Italian, and my mom used to cook pasta for us all the time because he liked it so much. It was never her specialty, though. Not as good as her lumpia.”

“Oh, I love lumpia,” said Hugh, more enthusiastically than the comment warranted.

Nova bit the inside of her cheek, almost willing him to read her thoughts. My dad, my mom—who aren’t here anymore. Who believed so strongly that you would come, that you would protect them. Who taught me to believe you would protect us.

But Hugh just went on stirring the pot, his expression serene.

“Where did McLain come from?” said Simon, startling her. “If your dad was Italian.”

Her heart hammered. She’d forgotten. She was not Nova Artino, not here. She was Nova Jean McLain. “Uh … my … grandfather,” she stammered. “Paternal grandfather. He was Scottish, but … lived in Italy. For a while.”

Simon made a noise of mild interest. A polite noise. A noise for trivial small talk.

Had she fooled them? Or were they trying to lure her off her guard?

Despite how cheerful they were both acting, she could see that Hugh had bruise-tinged shadows beneath his eyes and the start of stubble on his usually clean-shaven jaw. Simon, too, seemed less spirited than usual.

“Are you both okay?” she said.

Simon chuckled and he and Hugh shared a commiserating look. “Adrian told us you slept for a long time last night,” he said, sweeping the carrot tops into his palm and dumping them into the sink on the other side of the bar. “I suppose he didn’t tell you the news?”

“News?”

The door behind her swung open and Adrian emerged, holding a can of diced tomatoes like a trophy. “Mission accomplished.”

“Thanks, Adrian,” said Hugh, taking the can from Adrian. Instead of using a can opener, he dug his fingernails into the edge of the can and peeled back the aluminum top. He dumped the contents into the sauce. “Simon was just telling Nova about the Sentinel.”

She and Adrian both stilled.

“The Sentinel?” she asked.

“Yep,” Simon said darkly. “He’s alive.”

Adrian scowled. It surprised Nova. For all the times he’d heard her complain about the Sentinel, he’d never said anything negative about the vigilante himself. At least, not that she could recall. She’d had a sneaking suspicion that he sort of admired the guy.

“Right,” said Adrian. “I guess I should have mentioned something. It’s all over the news right now.”

Nova blinked at him. His tone was odd—evasive.

Simon slid off his stool and came around the bar, passing in front of Nova. She caught sight of the knife in his hand and every muscle tightened. She clawed her fingers, targeting the exact patch of skin she would use to knock him unconscious.

He grabbed a towel from the counter and started to wipe off the blade.

“Excuse me,” he said, turning back to her.

Nova started in surprise. “Right, sorry,” she said, easing away from him.

He dropped the knife into the block with the others.

She tried to disentangle the knot in her stomach, irritated with her own overreaction. “So … how do we know he’s alive?”

“He had a run-in with one of our patrol units. Do you know Frostbite and her team?” Simon caught himself and chuckled, but without much humor. “Of course you do. The trials. Anyway—they were sent after Hawthorn. We finally had some solid leads about where to find her, and … well. They found her.” A muscle twitched beneath his beard.

“And?” said Nova.

“They got there in time to see the Sentinel torturing her—crushing some of her limbs.”

Nova reeled back. “What?”

Beside her, Adrian picked up a carrot stick and jabbed it hard into a bowl of dip.

“When he realized the Renegades were there, he murdered Hawthorn, right before their eyes. Then he attacked them.”

Nova peered at Adrian, in part for confirmation, but he was glowering at the counter.

“Let me guess,” she said. “He got away. Again.”

“It’s one more reminder that he is not to be underestimated,” said Simon.