He can thaw the ice of a frozen heart
To offer a lost shifter a new start.
His firestorm burns fierce and white
Its radiance a beacon in the darkest night.
But can it bring hope to that doomed soul?
Or persuade his lost mate to become whole?
If the dragon wins the swan maiden’s trust
It will be Fae not Others who are turned to dust.
The future will be theirs, once allied
If the assassin joins the dragon’s side.
It all made sense. His mate had a red string on her wrist, so she was cursed by Maeve: that would make her a doomed soul. Was her heart frozen? Was that how she made her kills? That might just be a metaphor. She had warmed up a lot since they’d first met.
The big thing was that he’d been trying to convince her to give them a chance, and the prophecy indicated that he was on the right track: if he persuaded her to ally with him, they could change the tide of the battle against the Fae.
That was the best news Hadrian had heard in a while. He wanted to ask Alasdair more about his memories of Hadrian’s father’s firestorm, but had let his cousin sleep all day. It was time to rouse him. He turned down the fire in the forge and headed back into the lair.
It was time to eat something, too. He’d cook for the guys this time, and even the score.
Who knew—a good meal might even coax his mate to return.
Hadrian couldn’t wait to see her again, no matter what she tried to do to him.
Someone had been in her home.
Rania manifested in the kitchen, just as before, but this time, the air smelled different. The door was slightly open and it was colder inside. What kind of intruder left the door open?
A thief! Was he or she still in the house?
It was just sunset and the sky was streaked with orange. The shadows were long inside the house already.
Rania moved silently through the main floor, finding no signs of anyone. The house was still. She knew she wasn’t wrong, though: someone had been there. She finally eased open the door to the stairs leading to what had originally been the cellar, and paused at the light gleaming from the lower floor.
She hadn’t left it on.
Her collection, the only thing of value she possessed, was there.
Fortunately, there was only one way out of the lower level—unless the intruder was Fae or had similar powers to her own. That the kitchen door to the outside had been left ajar hinted otherwise. Rania took a kitchen knife and moved stealthily down the stairs, counting on the element of surprise.
There was a man standing in front of her collection, hands on his hips as he surveyed it. He was so motionless that he could have been a statue, but Rania could detect the faint sound of his breathing. She kept her collection in wall cabinets that she’d had custom-built, and she knew she’d left the doors closed and locked. They were flung open now, the light glinting off dozens of polished blades.
As far as she could see, the only missing weapons were the ones Hadrian had taken from her.
Who was this man? What was he doing in her home?
She took a silent step closer.
“Not the hobby I expected you to have,” he said, his voice deep and rumbling. He’d heard her approach and she couldn’t see that he was armed. He had to guess that she would be. Rania braced herself for a surprise.
He was tall and broad, built like a warrior, and his fair hair was tied back. It hung straight almost to his waist, a lot like her own hair except that Rania couldn’t decide whether his was silver or gold.
He didn’t stand like an old man, though. There was vitality in his posture, and she could see the muscles in his shoulders. He’d be a formidable opponent.
There was an undercurrent of amusement to his words, as if he smiled frequently, but when he glanced over his shoulder at her, Rania was startled by the sadness in his eyes. They were blue, clear blue, filled with shadows as if he’d wept enough for a dozen lifetimes. His brows were dark and striking.
His gaze flicked over her, lingering for a moment on the knife, then her neck. “Was it stolen from you?” he demanded, the very idea obviously offensive.
Rania didn’t know what he meant. “What?”
“The ring. I can see a mark from the chain on your neck. Did someone steal it?” The idea seemed to insult him.
How had he even known she wore a ring on a chain?
“In a way,” she said, not wanting to admit all of the truth. “I’ll get it back.” She’d retrieve it soon enough, but she felt his displeasure that she’d lost it at all.
“Are we talking about the same ring?” His tone hardened. “The ring on the chain your mother placed around your neck when you were born? The ring that is your legacy?”
Rania blinked. Her legacy? “It is?”
“Didn’t you ever wonder? Didn’t you ever ask?”
She hadn’t and she knew it, although now, her choice seemed odd. Ever since that sliver had come out of her hand, Rania had felt different. Emotional. Unsettled. She was filled with questions, while previously, she’d felt no doubts at all.
He ran a hand over her hair. “Now, you’ll never know,” he said sadly, speaking so softly that he might have been addressing himself. He looked like he might weep.
“What are you doing in my house?” she demanded, trying to keep herself from feeling any sympathy for him. He was an intruder, after all.
He turned back to the collection of weapons, not answering her. Despite the fact that he was vulnerable, Rania found herself lowering the kitchen knife. She wanted some answers and she wasn’t going to get them if she killed him.
She might not get them at all.
But she was sufficiently honest with herself to admit that wasn’t the main reason she didn’t strike him.
She was curious.
Again.
How did he know about the ring?
What else did he know?
“Why knives?” He sounded mystified. “Why not...dolls?”
“Dolls?” Rania scoffed. “Why not knives? I’m a warrior. They’re the tools of my chosen trade. Why should I ignore my abilities? Just because I’m female?” She’d stepped up alongside him and met his gaze, knowing hers was filled with challenge.
He eyed her and slowly smiled. His eyes twinkled, which startled her. “My mistake,” he said, bowing his head slightly. “Just because you look like your mother doesn’t mean you share her nature.”
He’d known her mother?
He studied her collection, his scrutiny so intense that she thought he coveted it.
She stepped past him and closed the cabinet doors again. She confronted him, then, staring him down. “Who are you and what do you want?”
“I wanted to meet you,” he replied quietly, answering only her second question. He eyed her as if she was incomprehensible. “I wanted to know why you never wondered.”
“Wondered about what?”
“The ring. Where you came from? Whose blood runs in your veins?”
“My parents are dead.”
“Are they?”
Something about the softly-uttered question fed Rania’s doubts. “Do you know where they are?”
“A thousand years,” he mused. “And you never wondered. How can this be?”
Rania felt as if she’d failed a test, one she hadn’t realized she was taking.