Table of Contents

RUHN BONUS CHAPTER

*read after chapter 8
BRYCE & HUNT BONUS CHAPTER
*read after chapter 22
THARION BONUS CHAPTER
*read after chapter 57
 Ruhn Bonus Chapter

-Ruhn-

It was early as fuck when someone started pounding on the front door to
Ruhn’s house, ringing the doorbell over and over.
Sprawled naked on his bed, Ruhn cracked open an eye and hollered,
“Somebody fucking get that.”
Dec hollered back from his room across the hall, “Somebody
fucking kill that person.”
Flynn made no reply from his own room. The asshole was likely
sleeping right through the commotion.
Another round of banging on the door and doorbell ringing. “All
right, all right,” Ruhn groaned as he slithered from the bed, fumbling
for his black jeans. He didn’t bother with underwear as he slid them on,
forgoing a shirt and trudging down the stairs.
If the press had arrived to ask about Cormac’s arrival, they were in
for a rude fucking awakening. Perhaps he shouldn’t have left the
Starsword on the floor of his bedroom.
Ruhn yanked open the door, wincing as blinding sunlight blasted
him.
The petite, delicate female standing on the porch still had her fist
raised to the door.
It was worse than the press.
The female was immaculate in a white dress, her silken black hair
unbound, her tan face tight with displeasure. She wore little makeup, as
was appropriate for all well-bred Fae females, but solid sapphire studs
gleamed at the lobes of her pointed ears. A hint of the obscene wealth
her family possessed. From all appearances, she was beautiful—the
ideal of a Fae female.
Too bad she possessed the rotted soul of a Reaper.
Ruhn didn’t bother greeting her before he turned to bellow over his
shoulder, “Flynn, your sister’s here.”
“Do you know what time it is, Sathia?” Flynn hissed from where he
perched on the grand staircase, nursing a cup of coffee.
Ruhn leaned against the banister at the bottom, his own coffee
already half-consumed. Dec sat at the top of the steps, glowering at the
female surveying them all.
“It’s nine o’clock,” Flynn’s sister said primly. “Most people have
been up for hours already.”
“Only people who go to bed at eight like good little sheep,” Flynn
shot back.
Sathia, Flynn’s younger sister by a decade, smiled coldly. “Better
than the losers who drink and smoke all night and make a habit of
spitting on their ancestors’ graves.”
Ruhn snickered. The female turned her disapproving gaze on him. “I
include you in that group, Prince.” Ruhn sketched a bow. “Proud to be
in it.”
Sathia’s dark eyes blazed.
Flynn cut in, “Why are you here, sister? Playing messenger for
Mommy and Daddy?”
“No. They have no idea I’m here. I came to speak to you. All three
of you.”
“Lucky us,” Dec muttered.
Sathia ignored him, and said to Ruhn, “I have it on good authority
that Prince Cormac of Avallen arrived here last night and declared your
sister his bride.”
“This makes so much sense now,” Flynn murmured to himself. Then
he laughed. “Planning on hunting Cormac down and dragging him to
the altar?”
Sathia’s lips pursed. “I came to learn the truth.”
“It’s none of your business,” Ruhn said coldly. Despite his
conversation with his father and Cormac last night, this matter was far
from settled.
“You owe it to the Fae nobility of Valbara to make it known if an
available bachelor has come to town.”
 Declan burst out laughing. “That is a load of shit, Sathia, and you
know it.”
The female didn’t back down, though they each had a hundred
pounds and about a foot on her. Ruhn couldn’t help but admire her,
despite the fact that he hated her guts. Sathia was pure predator at heart.
Nothing—and no one—scared her.
“Prince Ruhn is marrying outside the noble bloodline,” Sathia
declared. “So we must look elsewhere.”
“We,” Flynn taunted, “or you?”
Sathia stared her brother down. “I, at least, have some interest in
bringing honor to our family name.” She sneered at the beer bottles
littering the room from the party the night before.
Flynn yawned loudly. “Cormac and Bryce are engaged. Done deal.
Now get the fuck out.”
Sathia put her hands on her hips. “How solid is the engagement?”
“For fuck’s sake,” Flynn groaned, and got to his feet, stomping
down the steps. He grabbed his sister by the elbow. “Save your social
climbing for someone who cares. Cormac’s taken. If you’re set on an
Avallen asshole, then Cormac’s got twin cousins who could fit the bill.
Which one liked females?” This last question was directed at Declan.
“Darragh,” Dec replied, and a shadow of memory darkened his
friend’s face. Dec had been involved with Seamus, the other twin, for a
time. A very short time, since he turned out to be the scum of the earth.
“Right. Darragh,” Flynn went on as he steered his sister to the door.
“He’s a prince. Not a Crown Prince, of course, but you’d at least get to
wear a tiara.” He yanked open the door and practically shoved her out.
“Why don’t you go bother him?”
Sathia planted her heels before Flynn could throw her down the
front steps. She yanked her arm from his grip and snarled with
impressive menace, “You’re an embarrassment to the Hawthorne
name.”
“Good,” Flynn said, and slammed the door shut in her face. The lord
leaned back against it and rubbed his neck. “Gods. She’s the fucking
worst.”
 “I bet her Ordeal will be something involving not being able to get
her manicure done on time,” Dec said, coming down the stairs.
Ruhn chuckled. “Or the agony of suspecting that the maid stole her
jewelry.”
“Again,” Flynn said. He eyed Ruhn. “You’re so lucky you didn’t
have to marry her.”
“That was never an option,” Ruhn said, but it was a half-lie. Had his
father ordered it, he would have had to marry Sathia. But his father had
bigger ambitions.
He never thought he’d be grateful for that.
Declan said, “Someone like Darragh Donnall would be a good
match for her. They’d make each other miserable.”
“You forget,” Flynn said, “that I’d have to call that shithead my
brother.”
“True,” Declan said.
“She’d be happier,” Flynn continued, “with some weak-spined male
she can boss around.”
“Plenty of those around here,” Ruhn muttered. Fae nobility were,
for the most part, pathetic worms—as evidenced by their behavior this
past spring, shutting out desperate people from their estates during the
attack.
Disgust roiled in Ruhn’s gut.
Had the Starsword only chosen him, had Urd made him Star-born,
because there were no other decent royals out there to carry the burden?
The thought of the title and sword falling into the hands of some of the
other Fae nobles, especially Cormac, sent a chill down his spine.
“Bryce better be careful,” Flynn said. “She’ll have an army of Fae
females out for her blood now that she’s engaged to Cormac.”
“Bryce will enjoy the challenge,” Ruhn said, frowning deeply.
“How’d it go with your father last night?” Dec asked.
“Same as always.” It was all he needed to say. “The engagement
stands.”
“I don’t trust that shithead Cormac for one second,” Flynn
grumbled. “He must have some other reason for being here.”
 “Maybe, but he’s as bad as Sathia when it comes to the whole
continuing the bloodline thing,” Ruhn said.
“Speaking of which,” Dec said, “any word from Hypaxia?”
Ruhn threw his friend a wry look. “No, asshole.” He ignored the
glimmer of dread that rose in him. Not about his betrothed, the beautiful
and wise witch-queen, but about the fact that continuing the bloodline
wouldn’t be possible for him, even if he wanted to.
Was it fair to Hypaxia, to hide that information? What did it make
him, to keep it from her?
It made him alive, for one thing. Since his father would surely kill
him if he knew.
His only value to his father lay in his breeding potential. And
without it … no need for a thorn in his side.
Dec said, “Cormac is bad news, engagement or not. I’d be careful if
I were you, Ruhn.”
“He’s not going to jump me in my own city,” Ruhn said.
“He tried to kill you the last time you two saw each other,” Dec
warned, and Flynn grunted his agreement.
"That was before the Ordeal. He wouldn’t dare now," Ruhn said.
“He holds a grudge,” Dec insisted. “Not only did you get the
Starsword, you showed him up on his home turf.”
“We showed him up,” Flynn corrected. “And if Cormac holds a
grudge, then we sure as Hel do, too.” He patted Dec’s stomach, where
the scar from Cormac’s blade remained despite the male’s Vanir
healing. Dec batted him away. “Let him see what happens if he tries to
start round two.”
For a moment, Ruhn was again in that mist-shrouded cave, Dec’s
blood warm and sticky on his hands. But he shut out the memory and
said, “Just be on alert.”
If they killed the prince, there would be all-out war between the
Valbaran and Avallen Fae.
Not that Cormac had shown any such concern all those years ago.
Ruhn entered the small yet beautiful villa through the back gate. Of
course, the two Fae guards posted outside noted his presence, and
definitely noted the Starsword strapped down his back, but at least they
would be the only witnesses.
He didn’t mind people knowing that he visited his mother. But he
liked to at least pretend he could visit her without it making the gossip
rounds.
The garden at the rear of the villa was built for the arid climate,
unlike most of the lush, magic-fueled estate grounds around here. White
stones surrounded the olive trees; beds of swaying lavender buzzed with
honeybees. A few orange trees by the northern wall filled the place with
their sweet scent—as familiar to him as the reek of beer and mirthroot
at his own house.
He entered the villa through the floor-to-ceiling glass doors between
two white pillars, stepping into the kitchen, which was sunny yet cool.
He unbuckled the Starsword and its sheath, tucking it into the umbrella
stand next to the garden doors. The thunk of the blade inside the
ceramic holder was the only sound in the pristine space.
No personal touches. No photos of him. Even while growing up
here, his artwork had never been hung on the stainless steel fridge. He
hadn’t even known parents did that stuff until he’d gone over to Dec’s
house one day and spied his friend’s shitty artwork from school all over
the place.
Ruhn let the memory fade as he strode through the white, shining
halls, aiming for the room where he knew he’d find his mother at this
hour of the morning.
Lorin was indeed sitting in the breakfast room, a book open on the
fruit-laden table before her, dressed immaculately in a lilac-colored
gown. She was beautiful, as all Fae were, but there was a gentleness to
her face. A sadness to her deep blue eyes—Ruhn’s eyes.
She was always perfectly put together. Always pristine and ready
for a visit.
Not a visit from him, Ruhn had learned long ago.
But her gaze brightened upon seeing him, a smile of genuine
warmth gracing her face. “Ruhn,” his mother said, rising from the table.
 “Hey, Mom.” Ruhn motioned for her to sit. He pressed a kiss to her
silken dark hair before sliding into the chair beside her.
Though she was two centuries older than him, they looked the same
age. He’d always envied the fact that Bryce’s parents would remain
looking like her parents—that is, years older than her.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?” his mother asked, piling
grapefruit and orange slices onto a plate for him.
“Just wanted to say hi,” he hedged, not ready to jump into
conversation just yet. “See how you were doing. Did the handyman fix
that issue with the garden sprinklers?”
“Yes,” his mother said. “Thank you for sending him.”
Ruhn refrained from saying that there was no one else who would
have sent for him. His mother had no idea who to even call about issues
in the home, and his father sure as shit wouldn’t bother to care. Lorin
wouldn’t have dared to bother the Autumn King, anyway.
Luna shoot him down, but Ruhn had come home from his Ordeal in
Avallen to find that his mother had gone two weeks in the height of
summer with a broken air-conditioning system. When he’d asked her
why she hadn’t gotten it fixed, she’d only said she didn’t want to
inconvenience anyone.
So Ruhn had made sure in the decades since then to visit at least
once a week to check on her—and the house.
Ruhn picked at his fruit, then asked, “You see my father lately?”
His mother’s eyes flicked down to her plate. “I have not had that
honor.”
Ruhn clenched his jaw. “He’s, ah, been busy.”
The thought of his gentle, lovely mother with the Autumn King …
The male had used her like a broodmare, sired Ruhn, and then dropped
her into this cushy villa to rot.
But at least mentioning the Autumn King offered Ruhn a good
opening into why he’d come. “We learned last night that he’s engaged
Bryce to Cormac Donnall.”
His mother lifted her head at that, a smile gracing her beauti-ful,
delicate face. “That is wonderful news.”
Ruhn shrugged. “Bryce doesn’t think so.”
 “She doesn’t approve of the match?” Lorin frowned deeply.
“When you were … chosen for the Autumn King,” Ruhn managed
at last, “did you get any say in it?”
His mother blinked at him. He’d never asked her about it—only
heard stories secondhand about the pairing that had resulted in his birth.
“It was my duty and honor. I was happy to oblige.”
Ruhn took a long breath in through his nose. “You could have said
no, though. Right?”
“Why would I have ever said no?”
Ruhn suppressed his urge to groan at the ceiling. “Because you
didn’t want to jump into his bed?”
“I was chosen to continue the royal bloodline. There is no reason I
should have not wished to do so.”
The problem was that his mother had developed an affection for his
father in the process. One that the Autumn King was incapable of
returning.
She asked, “What is this about, Ruhn?”
He couldn’t risk telling her the truth—that he’d come here to see if
there was some way out of Bryce’s engagement. Hoping that his mother
might remember some loophole either she or her family had tried to
exploit.
It had been a fool’s errand. Ruhn had grown up knowing his mother
viewed her involvement with his father to be an honor—even if it was
little more than an arranged breeding. He didn’t know why he’d
expected her to suddenly admit to having doubts beforehand.
“Bryce is a smart girl—and a kind one,” his mother said. “She will
see the wisdom and honor in this union with Prince Cormac.”
Lorin’s mother had been a Donnall—it was through those blood ties
that Ruhn had been invited to Avallen all those years ago. Blood ties
were all that truly mattered among the Fae. Passing on the noble
heritage, ensuring that no one sullied it.
Had his father been a different sort of male, Ruhn would have
believed his relationship with Ember to be nothing short of defiant of
that tradition.
 But whatever rules his father might have broken to be with Ember
Quinlan, he clearly didn’t care to allow those transgressions to his
people. To his own daughter. Maybe that would change when Ruhn
took the throne. Maybe he’d be the first to break the rules and traditions
and put an end to the planned breeding and arranged marriages.
Ruhn tucked away the thought and asked his mother, “Anything in
the house you need me to look at?”
She smiled broadly, as if grateful for the shift in conversation.
Ruhn spent the next hour with her, until his phone buzzed with a
message from Flynn. Where are you? The meeting started five minutes
ago.
Shit—the meeting with the Aux captains. Ruhn typed back, Stall for
me. Be there in ten.
He rose from the table and said to his mother, “I have to head to a
meeting, but let’s plan on dinner sometime in the next week or two,
okay?” His mother beamed, and his heart tightened. Was he any better
than his father, stringing her along with occasional visits and dinners?
The question lingered as Ruhn headed out into the lush quiet of
FiRo a few minutes later, strapping the Starsword down his back once
more.
Would he be any better than his father when it counted? When he
became king?
A small part of him wondered if the question even mattered. With
what the Oracle had told him about the bloodline ending with him, he
didn’t even know it he’d live long enough to be king at all.
Picking up his pace, Ruhn kept to alleyways and side streets,
dodging the usual throngs of gawking tourists that would either
recognize him or the Starsword and start snapping photos.
I might not live long enough to be king.
The thought should have disturbed him. But all it left in its wake
was a strange calm, a hideous sort of relief. He waited for the guilt, the
self-loathing to set in. Braced for it as he entered the Aux training
facility, passing the Fae guards who saluted him.
But that strange calm and relief remained, steadying him for the rest
of the day. He didn’t want to dwell too long on why that might be.
 Urd had decided his fate. He’d save his breath for fighting things he
could actually change.
 Bryce & Hunt Bonus Chapter

-Bryce-

Bryce had barely settled in to work at her desk when her phone rang.
She saw who was calling and grimaced.
“Cormac. To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“Here in the real world, we say, Let’s do lunch.”
A pause, and Bryce smiled. The Avallen Price said tightly, “It’s a
formal luncheon at Lord Hawthorne’s house. I’ve just been informed
that you must attend with me.”
Bryce straightened. “Informed by whom?”
“My father.”
It was her turn to pause. “What did my father have to say about it?”
“Nothing. He’s not invited.” A small mercy. “The Hawthornes and
the Donnalls go back generations. This is between our families only.
And since you are supposedly about to become part of mine…” She
could hear the sneer in his voice. “You are expected to be there.”
She debated objecting, but … she surveyed her desk, her tin office.
So at odds with the stirring forces arounf them. With her entire life.
She’d take any distraction that was offered, even if it mean mingling
with the Fae. “Do I need to look fancy?”

* * *

Thirty minutes later, Bryce found herself beside Cormac as they entered
the opulent villa in the heart of FiRo. A mere two blocks from her
father’s house, and nearly identical: pale marble, olive and orange trees,
beds of lavender swaying beneath them, aquamarine fountains sparkling
in the sunlight … everything screamed money.
 It was hard to believe Flynn had grown up here. A stiff-backed
butler ushered them through the shining halls, as immaculate and
impersonal as a museum. No TVs hung on the walls, no sound systems,
nothing beyond the occasional firstlight to indicate that this place
existed in the current century.
But Cormac’s brows were high. Impressed.
As the butler strode ahead, Bryce muttered to the prince, “I should
have known this would be up your alley. Anti-tech living at its finest.”
She gestured to a closed wooden door as they passed. “Dungeon’s down
there. If you go now, you can probably beat the crowd for the two
o’clock peasant flogging.”
Cormac gave her a sidelong, withering look and said with equal
quiet, “I suggest you curb that irreverent humor before we enter the
dining room. You are here as a representative of your bloodline—and
our people.”
Bryce lifted her eyes to the ornately carved cornices, silently
beseeching Cthona for strength.
Soft voices flitted down the hallway before the butler passed
through the open doors of the dining room.
Bryce tensed for a heartbeat at the voices. Not just Fae awaited her
in that room. They were Fae nobility.
She glanced down at her lacy white dress and golden sandals. Clean.
No wrinkles or dirt. She’d changed, grateful she’d left the outfit in her
office closet in case of an important meeting.
“You look fine,” Cormac murmured without shifting his gaze to her.
“I don’t give a shit,” she hissed back. But … these were her father’s
people. Who had never known she was her father’s daughter before last
spring, but … she’d seen their stares in the streets since then. Would
never forget that they locked down their villas—this villa—when the
demons attacked, shutting out anyone fleeing in he streets. How many
had died on the sidewalk just beyond these gates, begging for mercy?
As the butler announced their arrival to the crowd in the dining
room, listing all ten of Cormac’s royal names and titles, Bryce extracted
her phone from her purse and pulled up Hunt’s contact info.
 Or it had said Hunt this morning. Now his contact was listed under:
Hunt, Whose Bones I Want to Jump Immediately.
She swallowed her laugh. When had he changed that? Though, after
that kiss in the alley yesterday, she couldn’t disagree. She quickly typed
out a message.
You’ll never guess where I am. Nice contact name, btw. Totally
accurate.
“Put that away,” Cormac ordered under his breath as the butler
finished the grand announcement. “It’s rude.”
Bryce checked her phone one more time—Hunt had answered, In a
meeting. Call you in an hour.
She sent him an answering Ok! before silencing her phone and
slipping it into her bag with a glare at Cormac.
The butler stepped aside, bowing low and motioning for them to
come forward. Bryce took a steeling breath and stepped into the long,
bright space that opened into the rear garden. Cormac put a hand on her
lower back, guiding her in, and she debated shoving that hand off her.
A room full of people stared. No one smiled at her.
Fine. She didn’t bother to smile back.
Cormac nudged her along, approaching a tall, handsome Fae male
who was the spitting image of Flynn. A little older, but nearly identical,
from the brown hair to the green eyes. Lord Hawthorne. She couldn’t
help but admire his slim-fitting charcoal suit, though she loathed herself
for it. A slim, blond Fae female in a white sheath dress stood beside
him, narrow-faced and cold-eyed. Lady Hawthorne.
Flynn, gods bless him, loitered by the floor-to-ceiling windows that
overlooked the beds of lavender, knocking back a glass of champagne.
She’d never seen him in a suit, but … Well, should it surprise her, given
how many crazy things seemed to be happening lately?
She and Cormac halted before their hosts. Lord and Lady
Hawthorne bowed their heads.
Bryce tried not to blink. Right. She was … a princess. Or at least an
unofficial one, engaged to a real prince.
Solas roast her alive.
 Lord Hawthorne assessed Bryce, distaste filling his gaze, but he said
nothing. The crowd still stared. She didn’t look to confirm how many
were smirking at her cold reception.
“I believe the term you’re looking for is Your Highness,” the
younger Flynn drawled, swaggering toward them, handing his empty
champagne flute to a waiting server. The words and motion set the
crowd of about two dozen people chatting and mingling again, and
though they appeared to be distracted, Bryce knew all eyes and ears
remained fixed on them.
Flynn didn’t seem to give a shit as he came up to Bryce’s other side
and kissed her cheek. “Hey, B.”
His mother’s nostrils flared. Either at the brazen show of affection
or at her precious son deigning to touch a piece of trash.
Perhaps Flynn had done so for both reasons. It wasn’t every day that
her heart softened a bit toward her brother’s friend, but she couldn’t
help the rush of gratitude she felt.
Cormac, however, made a good show of exposing his teeth. “Lord
Tristan.” The greeting was a warning. Back the fuck off.
Flynn did no such thing. They were allies in this room full of
snakes.
So Bryce said to Flynn’s parents, offering them a close-lipped smile,
“Good to see you.”
Flynn’s mother merely looked Bryce over with that cool disdain.
His father frowned deeply.
Cormac cut into the stiff silence. “Thank you for hosting this
luncheon. I’m honored.”
“Of course.” Flynn’s mother shifted from icy aloofness to all smiles
as she faced the prince. “It was our lovely Sathia’s idea. She is so
thoughtful.” Flynn snorted at the mention of his younger sister, earning
a warning glare from his father.
They might have looked alike in body and face, but the two males
could not have been more different. Rumor had it the house’s
spectacular gardens were the result of the elder Lord Hawthorne’s earth
magic, but how a male so hard-hearted could produce such lovely things
was beyond Bryce.
 Cormac inclined his head, scanning the room until he found the
petite, dark-haired Fae female holding court amid a cluster of tall Fae
males. And enjoying every second of it, from the coy smile on her
pretty, heart-shaped face.
“Sathia never turns down a chance to trawl for suitors,” Flynn said
cheerfully, and his mother glared again, bristling. “Maybe she’ll get
lucky this time and actually snare some poor bastard.”
“You are to be on your best behavior, boy,” his father growled.
Bryce had picked up enough over the years to know that while Lord
Hawthorne had never been in the Aux, he was a highly trained warrior.
From his broad shoulders and the menace in that growl, Bryce didn’t
doubt it.
Bryce threw Flynn a sympathetic look.
But it was Cormac who replied with bland politeness, “I shall go
make my greetings to her. It’s been too long since we last saw each
other.”
Flynn’s mother smiled broadly, practically foaming at the mouth,
but when she caught Bryce smirking, cold reproach shone in her eyes.
All right, then.
Bryce looped her arm through Flynn’s and announced to Cor-mac,
“You go say hi. I have some things to discuss with Flynn.” Cormac gave
her a warning look that told her she was here to further their ruse, not be
antisocial, but she’d already made a quick retreat with Flynn toward the
windows.
Flynn swiped two flutes of champagne off a passing server; handing
one of them to Bryce. She sipped from it. Damn, they’d brought out the
good stuff for this.
Bryce halted at the floor-to-ceiling windows and surveyed the room
before saying to Flynn, “Your mom’s a real charmer, huh?” The other
guests eyed them from across the room, but kept away. Bryce ignored
them all.
Flynn swigged from his glass. “She’s pissy that you snatched
Cormac before my sister could get her claws in him. She’s always
thought Sathia would be a princess. So has Sathia.”
“What about Ruhn?”
 Flynn gave her a glare that nearly matched his mother’s. “Friends
don’t let friends marry assholes.”
Bryce laughed. “Your sister’s that bad, huh?”
“I’ve made sure Ruhn is well aware of what Sathia wants.”
Flynn shrugged. “To be honest, Sathia’s fine. She survives in whatever
way she can, I guess. And I can’t fault her ambition. At least she knows
what she wants from life.”
Bryce decided against asking Flynn if he knew what he wanted from
his own. “Why does Sathia even want to be a princess? She has plenty
of power and money.” Adding a title would be a step up, yes—but it
would also come with far more work and responsibilities.
“I don’t know. I never asked. Maybe she likes the sparkly crowns.”
Flynn drank again. “I m surprised you allowed the Prince of Assholes to
drag you here.”
“Part of the deal. Keeping up appearances and whatnot.”
Flynn snorted. “Yeah, same.” Flynn might act the playboy, but there
were some duties even he couldn’t shirk. She watched his carefully
neutral face, the boredom he plastered there. Who was the male beneath
all that? Beneath the partying and irreverence?
She arched a brow. “You really hate all this, don’t you?”
His brows lifted. “Why are you so surprised?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I feel like I owe you an apology for
not realizing it earlier.”
He winked. But his amusement faded as he said a shade quietly,
“That’s why Ruhn and I became friends, you know. Because we both
hate this crap. We have ever since we were kids.”
“What about Dec?”
“His family’s rich, but they’re not nobility. They don’t run in these
circles. And Dec got to have a normal childhood because of it.” A soft
laugh. “Why do you think he’s the most well-adjusted of all of us? His
parents actually give a shit about him.”
It was as personal as they’d ever gotten. Flynn continued, “So Ruhn
and I—and Dec—we made our own family.” Another wink. “And now
you’re in it.”
“I’m touched. Really.”
 He leaned in to whisper in her ear, champagne on his breath, “You
ever want to know how the Fae measure up to the angels, come find me,
B. I don’t bite. Unless you ask real nice.”
She yanked back. “Take your self-destructive bullshit elsewhere.”
He laughed—but the mirth didn’t reach his eyes. She knew he
hadn’t meant a word of it. Knew he was feeling trapped and pissed at
having to be here and was acting out in any way he could.
Indeed, his mother was beckoning him over to where she spoke to a
pale, meek-looking Fae female. Flynn groaned under his breath.
“Duty calls.” He drained his champagne and didn’t say goodbye before
sauntering to his mother’s side. The Fae girl blushed at whatever he said
with that charming, boyish smile of his, ducking her head and
mumbling an answer.
Bryce snorted. Good luck to her. And to Flynn.

“Rough day, huh?” Hunt asked her two hours later as he slid onto the
barstool beside her at the gastropub off Archer Street.
Bryce held up a shot of espresso in one hand and a shot of whiskey
in the other. “I couldn’t decide what I needed more: stuff to numb my
soul, or stuff to wake me up from that funeral of a luncheon.”
Hunt laughed, wing brushing over her bare arm in a casual,
warming touch. She couldn’t help the shiver that went down her skin in
answer. “It was that bad?”
She knocked back the espresso as Hunt signaled the bartender for a
coffee of his own. “Spending time in a room full of people who hate me
isn’t exactly my idea of fun.”
He rested his arms on the black marble bar. “Yeah, I know the
feeling,” he said.
He did. If anyone got it, it was Hunt. Bryce leaned into his shoulder,
sighing deeply. “Am I pathetic for still letting them get to me?”
Hunt pulled back to survey her. She didn’t balk from the searching
expression on his face. “You’re talking to the guy who recently got
tossed in the Comitium dungeon for beating up someone who still gets
to me after centuries of telling myself to ignore him. So if you’re
pathetic, I’m a sad fucking loser.”
She huffed a laugh, leaning back into him. “You’re my favorite
person.”
“Likewise, Quinlan.” He slid an arm around her, and Bryce savored
the unfailing strength of him. Not a strength to overpower her, but a
strength that complemented her own—that bolstered it and helped it
thrive. It was hard not to thank Urd every single day for sending Hunt
her way.
They sat like that until the bartender brought over Hunt’s coffee, and
Hunt removed his arm to sip from the hot drink. Bryce watched him,
noting the slight tension in his shoulders, his wings. She asked carefully,
“What sort of meeting were you in?”
Yeah, his wings shifted at that. “Sad fucking loser, remember?”
“Pollux, then?”
“Yeah.” A muscle ticked in Hunt’s cheek. “Staff meeting with
Celestina. Pollux was … being Pollux. Trying to rile me. And Isaiah
and Naomi. But mostly me.”
“No wonder you flew over here so fast when I asked you to meet
me.”
Hunt threw her a half grin. “Oh, not at all. I was just hoping you
were down for a bathroom hookup.”
Bryce laughed. “I’d be game for that, too, Athalar.” Heat sparked in
his dark eyes. “Yeah?” He set down his coffee.
Something low in her belly tightened in answer. She traced her
finger over the countertop. “After that lunch, I need to do a little …
venting.”
He tracked the sweep of her finger over the marble, his voice
dropping an octave as he said, “I’ve only got ten minutes before I need
to head back to the Comitium.”
“I’m sure we can find something to keep us occupied,” she purred,
basking in the raw desire of his gaze.
“Then head to the bathroom, Quinlan,” he said in that low, growly
voice that raked fingers down her skin. “I’ll be right behind You.”
 She hopped off her stool, already slickening between her thighs, and
whispered in Hunt’s ear, “That’s exactly where I want you, Athalar.”
A soft snarl of pure need answered her, but Bryce was already
aiming for the bathroom at the back of the pub. Knowing his gaze was
on her, she might have swished her hips a bit. She could have sworn
lightning skimmed over her body in answer—and a sensual promise.
The single-stall bathroom had a working lock, which was all she
needed, Bryce decided as she shut the door behind her, heart racing.
She washed her hands to give herself something to do, glancing in
the mirror to see her eyes dark with desire, cheeks flushed. A woman
ready to get what she needed.
The door opened and shut, and the sound of rustling wings filled the
room. Bryce watched in the mirror as Hunt slowly slid the lock into
place, eyes on her ass as he said, “That dress should be illegal.”
She looked over a shoulder, hands braced on the sink. “Why don’t
you come confiscate it?”
A dark smile graced his lips, and he prowled closer. She didn’t tail
to note the hardness pushing against the front of his battle-suit. Just the
sight of it had her slickening further.
Hunt stopped just behind her, mouth dropping to her neck. “Ready
so soon?” he murmured against her skin, sniffing delicately. Scenting
her arousal.
Bryce pushed her ass into his front, drawing a hiss from him as she
said, “I could ask the same of you.”
“Hmmm,” he said, kissing just below her ear. “I think 1 need some
confirmation.” His hands slid down her thighs. “Shall I?”
Bryce widened her stance. “Confirm away.”
His teeth grazed her earlobe, tugging lightly before he slid a hand
under the hem of her dress.
Yes, fuck yes. His fingers skimmed over her bare thighs, working
upward, and she arched slightly against him, breath tight.
He nibbled on her ear, biting down again just as his fingers reached
the front of her underwear. He hissed again at the wetness he found.
“Solas, Quinlan.”
 Bryce could only manage a breathy moan. Hunt obliged her by
gently pressing down, tracing over the shape of her sex. She bit her lip,
halting just short of pleading with him to rip aside the lace thong.
“I’m going to need more than ten minutes,” Hunt said darkly,
fingers tracing and circling. “I’m gonna need fucking days to explore
you.” He kissed her neck again. “Weeks.” Another kiss. “Months.”
She moaned again at that, and he pressed down right on her clit.
Even like this, even over her underwear, he had her mere strokes from
coming. The bastard knew it, too, and said against the hot skin of her
neck, “Wound a little tight?”
She pushed back against him once more, grinding into his
considerable hardness. His answering groan sent her closer to the edge.
He toyed with the band of her underwear, a cat playing with its
dinner. He likely wouldn’t go any further until she told him, begged
him, and-
The door rattled.
Bryce froze, processing the heady desire coursing through her and
what that rattling door meant. Someone was trying to get in. Someone
who might very well take photos and report that she and Hunt had
walked out of a bathroom together. When she was supposed to be
engaged to Cormac-when she had just been at a luncheon with Cormac
as his fiancée.
“Shit,” Hunt murmured, hands sliding off her.
Bryce just called out, “Occupied!”
Hunt grunted in amusement.
Of course there were no windows in here for one of them to climb
out of. “What do we do?” Bryce paced a few steps.
“Watch and learn, Quinlan.”
He opened a small pocket in his battle-suit and pulled out a length
of bandage. “Arm,” he said, and she extended her hand toward him.
He wrapped her forearm with the bandage, pinning it in place.
Then opened a packet of antiseptic ointment and a small healing potion.
He dumped both down the sink, their sweet and sterile smells filling the
air. Then he threw the remnants into the trash atop the array of paper
towels.
 By the time Hunt opened the door, Bryce was playing along,
cradling her “injured” arm to her chest.
“Just don’t remove the bandage for at least an hour,” Hunt was
telling her as he stepped into the hall and nodded to the satyr male
waiting for the bathroom. “The potion should have healed the cut by
then.”
Bryce met the satyr’s stare and offered a glum smile. “Clumsy me.
I’m never going to hear the end of this from him.”
The satyr just smiled weakly back before walking into the
bathroom, his inhaling sniff informing her that he’d scented the strong
odors of the antiseptic ointment and healing potion. Which were not
only “proof” of the medical emergency, but had also wiped away any
lingering scents of their arousal.
When the satyr had locked the door, Bryce glanced up at Hunt to
find him watching her, desire still a dark flame in his eyes. “I’ll see you
at home tonight,” he said quietly. Then he leaned in to whisper in her
ear, “Maybe I’ll play medwitch and tend to your injury.”
She bit her lower lip. But before she could reply, Hunt had stalked
out of the pub, people giving him a wide berth before he leapt into the
skies.
It was only when she was walking up the steps of the archives that
she realized she was still smiling. That all thoughts of the luncheon had
faded away.
Hunt had done that for her. She’d never stop being grateful for
it—for him. Bryce’s heart tightened and something brighter than
starlight filled her veins.
It remained, shimmering and secret, glowing inside her for the rest
of the day.
 Tharion Bonus Chapter

-Tharion-

“Fitzroy, huh,” Tharion said, peering down at the river otter in the
bright yellow messenger’s vest standing before him in the airlock of the
Blue Court. “Where’d that name come from?”
The otter’s whiskers twitched, large, brown eyes blinking at him.
The creatures could understand their language, but they didn’t have the
vocal cords to speak it, relying instead on writing. Animals, yet not. No
power to speak of, beyond the occasional drop of water magic.
The otter pulled out a tiny electronic tablet and typed, its little, black
fingers tapping the keys one by one. Tharion bent to take the tablet
when it was offered, and read: Fitzroy was my great- great- great-
grandsire’s name, sir.
“Ah,” Tharion said, smiling slightly as he handed back the tablet.
“A family name.”
More typing. My friends call me Fitz.
“Nice to meet you, Fitz,” Tharion said as he reached into his pocket
and pulled out a scrap of paper: “You up for delivering this to the
witches’ embassy?”
A nod. Fitz extracted a metal cylinder from his messenger bag and
offered it to Tharion. Tharion slipped the note inside and screwed on the
watertight cap before handing it back to the otter.
“Give it to Queen Hypaxia—and Queen Hypaxia only.”
Fitz nodded again, not an ounce of surprise or awe on his fuzzy
face. A true pro.
Tharion flipped the otter a gold mark. “Let’s keep it between us,
Fitz.”
Fitz only winked and trotted for the small airlock built and reserved
for the otter messengers. With a hiss of compressed air, the door sealed.
 Tharion took his time heading back to his office. He had to maintain
the appearance of looking for Emile, but right now he had a matter of
his own to look into.
After locking the door to his office and powering up his computer,
Tharion typed in the name that had been haunting him since last night.
Morganthia Dragas.
Hypaxia’s second in command. The late Queen Hecuba’s second as
well. If anyone were to lead a revolt or make an attempt on Hypaxia’s
life, it would be her.
While the witches had been on his radar only in the vaguest sense
during his career, he’d looked into them after the Summit this past
spring. His friendship with their queen gave him cause to be interested
in who surrounded her. And after what he’d heard about Pax’s
suspicions …
He skimmed through article after article about Morganthia. Little
info came up beyond her tie to Hecuba, who had been a beloved, if
enigmatic, ruler. Morganthia was the daughter of Moria, who had been
general and second to Hecuba’s mother, Horae. Moria’s mother had
been general and second to Horae’s mother, Queen Hestia, and so on
throughout recorded history. A long line of powerful witches who had
always served the throne closely.
But now it seemed that Morganthia wasn’t content to stand beside
the throne any longer. Did she want it for herself?
Tharion idly tapped a finger on his desk, leaning back in his chair.
The last photo he’d stopped on was one of Morganthia and Hypaxia at
the Summit. Morganthia stood beside her queen with the gloom of a
Reaper, all sharp angles and cold eyes. Pax hadn’t been smiling either,
but the brightness in her eyes suggested kindness and quiet joy.
It was that same brightness that had caught his attention when he’d
first encountered her, just two days before this photo was taken.
For a moment, he let the memory tug him back to the muggy
warmth of the subterranean pools beneath the Summit center.
He’d been exhausted from the first day of meetings, and had opted
for a late-night swim in the massive, winding pools. They’d been
modeled to look like caves, with pillars and vaulted ceilings, some of
the pools a hundred feet deep and equipped with housing units for mer
who wanted to sleep submerged. Since the River Queen’s daughter had
wanted to stay in an underwater unit, he had little choice but to sleep
down here in his own pod, too. But when sleep had been slow to
embrace him, he’d found himself craving the quiet and stillness of one
of the shallower pools. He’d assumed it would be empty so late at night.
At his desk, Tharion closed his eyes, letting the memory take
over.

Exhaustion weighed down his body, his tail, as he wended between the
pillars and grottos of the pools, reveling in the smoothness of his
movement.
A moment of peace after a day of handling massive egos. And they
were his job to handle, as the River Queen’s daughter certainly hadn’t
stepped up to the plate.
He had no idea why her mother had sent her to the Summit at all.
Well, there was the obvious reason, which was that the River Queen
didn’t leave the Istros, but to send her daughter, untrained and easily
cowed … He supposed that was why he had been sent with her. He’d
done the talking. Had listened to Micah and Sandriel and the Autumn
King and Sabine and all those assholes jabber away about war and
trade, each trying to one-up the next. He figured he’d let them talk for
another few days, let them exhaust each other, before making his
points—and his queen’s points—known.
But just sitting there for hours had drained him. And though he’d
taken an early-morning swim to make sure the shift held, he needed
this. His love of all things Above didn’t cancel out his love for what it
felt like to be in the water, to move in it, to listen to its currents.
Another six days of this Hel.
At least he’d been able to sit. Athalar, the poor bastard, had been
forced to stand in the back all day. He’d been gifted to
Sandriel—Ogenas have mercy on the male.
 There was nothing Tharion could do to help him. According to
rumors, Bryce Quinlan had offered not only gold but her very life to
Sandriel in Hunt’s stead. Sandriel had turned her down.
And in the process, Sandriel had revealed Bryce’s secret: Legs was
the Autumn King’s daughter. While listening to the asshole talk today,
Tharion had been shocked to realize just how many features and
expressions the Autumn King and his daughter shared. How had
he—how had anyone—not realized it?
Tharion shook his head, swimming another loop around the space,
luxuriating in the powerful sweep of his tail, the answering ripple of the
water magic in his veins.
A faint splash sounded through the water. Like something had been
dropped.
He aimed for the surface, emerging slowly, making hardly a ripple
as he peered toward the source of the sound.
There, sitting at the pool’s edge with her feet in the water, just inside
the glass doors to the hall, sat Queen Hypaxia.
He scanned the white-tiled space for any hint of her guard, but the
witch had come alone. She seemed content to just dabble her feet in the
serene pool and lean back against her hands. There was no sign of her
cloudberry crown or fine robes. Just a simple white gown, as if she were
one of Luna’s temple virgins.
Had she come down here looking for someone, or just for solitude?
Tharion kept to the shadows of one of the pillars, treading water as
silently as he could.
He hadn’t formally met Hypaxia, since the River Queen’s daughter
had not formally met her, but he’d seen her during the procession, the
fancy meal afterward, and during the meeting today. She’d been as quiet
as he had been, listening to the others rather than spewing vitriol. She’d
even been taking notes throughout.
Young, but wise.
She kicked her feet, splashing, tipping her face to the ceiling.
Young, but wise—and beautiful.
 He knew better than to let that thought progress, but he couldn’t
stop himself from swimming closer. From letting his tail make enough
of a splash that she looked his way, eyes wide with alarm.
He halted about ten feet away, where the water remained deep
enough to allow room for his tail to keep him vertical, and gave her a
crooked smile. “I’d be careful putting my feet in the water if I were
you,” he said. “Something might bite off those little toes.”
He winked.
She didn’t smile, just asked sincerely, “What might bite them off?”
He chuckled. “I have to admit that I hadn’t thought further than the intro
line.”
She smiled slightly then. “I hope I’m not intruding.”
He waved a hand at the massive chamber, sprawling into faded
gloom behind him. “Benefit to having a space as large as the entire
convention center: little chance for crowding.”
She stared at him with those large, gorgeous eyes. “You are Tharion
Ketos. The River Queen’s Captain of Intelligence.”
“A lot of people doubt that whole ‘intelligence’ thing where I’m
involved, but yeah. Hi." He bowed his head. “You’re, ah … Queen
Hypaxia.”
A shallow nod, her face going a bit distant.
“I’m sorry about your mother,” he added quietly.
“So am I,” she said, but added, “Thank you.”
She clearly wanted space and some time alone, but . .. he didn’t
miss the sorrow in her eyes. The way her shoulders had sagged at the
reference to her late mother. So he said, if only to get rid of that sadness
on her face, “How’d you think today went?”
She angled her head, as if surprised he’d opted to continue the
versation rather than swim off and let it politely die.
“I found it … enlightening,” she said carefully.
“So diplomatic,” he teased, and swam closer, leaning an arm against
the side of the pool. “I found it boring as Hel. A whole lot of posturing
and little substance.”
Her lips twitched upward. “Is that your official report as Captain of
Intelligence?”
 “My official report is more like: windbag leaders blow a lot of hot
air while fighting over who has the biggest dick.”
She laughed—softly, but with real humor. “I’m sure your queen will
appreciate your keen assessment.”
He put a clawed hand over his heart in self-mockery. “She always
does.”
Hypaxia’s gaze skimmed over the calm, empty water behind him. “I
was advised to listen first, to evaluate my … companions here, and then
make my opinions known.”
“Hence the notes.”
“You were watching?”
“Captain of Intelligence, remember? Unless you were doodling love
letters to your handsome fiancé.”
She blushed at that. “Queens don’t doodle. Or write love letters.”
“Wrong and wrong.” With a powerful movement of his tail. he leapt
beside her onto the edge of the pool, splashing her in the process.
“Sorry,” he said as her white gown soaked up the water streaming from
him.
She waved him off. “A little water never harmed anyone.”
He examined her face for a moment, then asked, “How long have
you and Ruhn known each other?”
“That’s quite a personal question.”
He grinned. “If you think that’s personal, you’re in deep trouble.”
Her lips quirked again, as if she were fighting a full-on smile. “Not long
at all. We only know each other casually.”
“He seems to have a good deal of interest in you.” Tharion kept his
tone playful. “I maintained a running tally today of how many times he
looked at you.”
“You did not.”
“I was up to seventeen by noon.”
she let out a laugh then, unleashing that smile. “I’m sure you’re
mistaken.”
“not a chance. Princey was practically drooling.” Another laugh,
like silver bells. “You’re trouble.”
“I hear that a lot.”
 An amiable silence fell. Then he asked, “You needed some time to
yourself, huh?”
She resumed idly kicking her bare feet in the water. “I’ve spent
much of my life at my mother’s private keep in the mountains, with
only my tutors for company. In recent months, I’ve managed to find a
way to ease into the modern world. But here I’ve found that I must
adjust to having so many eyes on me as queen.”
There was a great deal to unpack there. “Why did you grow up
alone in the wilderness?”
“It was my mother’s choice.” It wasn’t an answer, but her voice was
aloof enough that he knew not to press. She continued, “I have …
unusual gifts. Ones that my mother thought best to learn in seclusion.”
“Am I allowed to ask?”
“I would not have mentioned them to you if not.”
He drawled, “So tell me, Pax: What sort of gifts?”
Her lips quirked upward at the nickname. But she said,
“Necromancy. I can raise and speak with the dead.”
Tharion let out a long whistle. “Color me impressed.” His brows
rose. “I thought witches were all House of Earth and Blood, though.
Necromancy is a Flame and Shadow gift.”
“My father was a necromancer,” she said. “I inherited the full force
of his talents.”
“So you can, like … really raise the dead?” His sister’s face flashed
through his mind.
“There are limits, and there can be dire consequences, but yes. It is
why we mostly stick to speaking with them, instead.”
“What happens when the dead come back? Are they … the same?”
“No. If their body has been destroyed, they require a new one.
Which is disorienting, to say the least. And some find that they do not
want to be ripped from the Eternal Lands. I haven’t done a true raising,
though, so I can only tell you what I’ve learned from my tutors. We
operate by a strict moral code, and they made sure I was well schooled
in it.”
“They’re necromancers?”
“No. They’re ghosts.”
 Tharion started. “Excuse me?”
“Very ancient ghosts. My mother thought it best that they be the
ones to teach me. Not just about necromancy, but about everything a
queen needs to know.”
His mind reeled. Necromancers weren’t common, but they weren’t
unheard of, either. For the witch-queen to be one, though—that could
have interesting implications. “Is this knowledge secret?”
“No. Some in my coven wish it were, but I am not ashamed. I have
no reason to hide the skill. It works hand in hand with my healing
abilities.”
“Life and death.”
“Exactly.”
That companionable silence again fell, and Tharion swished his tail
in the water. She asked, “Do you prefer your mer form or the humanoid
one?”
“No one’s ever asked me that.”
“Is it private?”
“No. I just …” He considered. “I don’t know the answer.”
She studied him. Like she could see the part of him that sometimes
only raced back to water because he had to, not because he wanted to.
He tried not to shift under that gaze, and turned the focus back to her by
asking, “Do you prefer being on land or flying on your broom?”
She was having none of it. “That’s not the same thing. But if you
must know, I prefer to fly.” She gestured to a brooch shaped like
lush-bodied Cthona on her shoulder. “My broom is contained in this. As
easy to summon as your fins. I find that I can sometimes hear it calling
me. That I can hear the wind itself calling to me, beckoning me to ride
its dips and swells. There’s a freedom and quiet in doing so.” She gave
him a knowing look. “I suspect you were swimming about down here
for a similar reason.”
Young and wise, indeed.
“Swimming about’ makes me seem so … idle,” he protested. “How
about ’prowling the waters’ instead?”
Again, that slight smile. “Prowling the waters, then.”
 He rubbed the back of his neck. “I needed some time to
decompress,” he admitted. “I’m, uh … I’m engaged to the River
Queen’s daughter.” He so, so rarely ever spoke the words aloud. “It
comes with perks, yeah, but also a lot of obligations on a daily basis.
Enough of them that …” He cut himself off before he said too much,
but from the gleam in her eyes, he knew the witch-queen read the
unspoken words: that it was a huge mistake for me to make in the first
place. “But beyond that, I just needed to think over all the crap the
windbags at the Summit said today.”
“When I do speak, I shall make sure to try to impress you.”
“You’ve already impressed me and then some, Pax.” How many
young rulers would share things with him like this? Guarded, yes, but
still open. Friendly. If she’d been surrounded by ghosts her whole life,
he didn’t blame her for wanting some living companionship. But the
queen was still different. From the timid River Queen’s daughter, from
the preening Fae rulers, from the glowering Archangels. A sort of
clarity glowed in her eyes that he couldn’t turn away from.
Which was precisely why he jumped back into the water, trying not
to splash her. When he emerged, slicking back his hair, he said, “Well, I
need to sleep. Gotta be alert for more dick-swinging tomorrow.”
“Are you referring to yourself or the others?”
She said it so coolly that he burst out laughing. “Good night, Pax.”
She blushed, and Tharion swam a few feet away. “Good night,” she
said.
“See you bright and early,” he replied, and dove beneath the water.
He aimed for his own sleeping pod across the space, and even when he
knew he’d swum deep and far enough for her not to see him, he could
have sworn he felt the witch’s gaze lingering.

A beep on Tharion’s computer stirred him from the memory, and he

opened his eyes to find a slew of new emails to read.
But he allowed himself a moment more to remember. How during
the next few days, he’d continually flashed her a piece of paper during
the meetings where he’d tallied all the times Ruhn had stared at her.
How she’d blushed and waved him off.
How they’d met at the pool each night to chat about everything and
nothing, sometimes only for five minutes, sometimes for an hour. By
the time all Hel broke loose—quite literally—he’d considered her a
friend. He knew she felt the same.
He’d returned to Lunathion during the demon invasion and had no
idea when he’d see her again. Until last night. Until the attack on her
and Bryce. Was her traitorous coven to blame? Who better to find out
than a captain of intelligence?
Tharion sorted through his emails, then returned to his research.
He had friends, of course. Captain Tharion Ketos was nothing if not
friendly. But those friends had always been casual. His connection with
Pax had felt instant, honest, and deep. He sure as fuck wasn’t going to
let the vultures in her coven hurt her or rob her of her birthright.
Whatever it took, he’d help her.
That is, if he managed to survive all this business with Emile Renast
and the Ophion rebels. Not to mention his queen.
He was still researching Morganthia when Fitzroy returned, bearing
a message in the metal tube.
The otter waited politely at the door while Tharion read Hypaxia’s
reply, written below his original message.
He’d written:
I meant what I said earlier. I’ve got your back. If you need me to
deal with your coven, I will. No questions asked. I know a lot of hungry
river beasts.
she’d replied, You are a good friend. Thank you.
He frowned a bit at the short, impersonal reply. But then he saw the
postscript she’d added:
PS Looks like we’re back to dealing with the dick-swingers.
He laughed and tucked the note into his pocket, then said to the
otter, “That’ll be all, Fitz.”
The otter typed away on his tablet, then handed Tharion both the
device and a laminated business card. If you require someone discreet, I
am available for private hire outside of the agency. I offer competitive,
often superlative, rates.
Tharion looked down at the card, which said: Fitzroy Brookings,
Personal Messenger.
It listed a private email and stated that he was available every day of
the year, even holidays.
“Enterprising,” Tharion said, pocketing the card. “I like it.”
The otter’s whiskers twitched, and he flashed Tharion a little fanged
smile.
“I’ll be in touch, Fitz,” Tharion said with a friendly wave. The otter
bowed his farewell before striding out.
Tharion pulled both the business card and Hypaxia’s note from his
pocket.
He’d definitely be in touch with the otter. If Hypaxia was in danger,
he’d wield every asset he could to protect her.
Even if it meant risking everything he had.