He was certainly the most arrogant.
A muscle in his jaw ticked as he continued to stare at her, enraged that a Royal dared to clean a table.
And for humans.
“Jaren.” She sighed dramatically and turned to him, crooking her finger. He came toward her with the slow, sensual prowl of a predator barely contained.
He stopped an arm’s length away and she closed the remaining distance, standing close enough that their boots touched at the toes. His eyes widened slightly at the intimacy the gesture implied—while elves were a people known to be sensual, it was never assumed that a previous…escapade meant the door would open for future repeats.
Tyriel had just made it very clear she wouldn’t mind a repeat.
In fact, she was all but dying to have his hands on her. She needed to feel…desired.
Jaren brushed her hair back, the taut lines of his face relaxing minutely, but his anger still burned hot.
Tyriel didn’t mind. Perhaps a bout of rough, angry sex was just what she needed to clear her head.
“Don’t be such an arrogant bore,” she murmured, pitching her voice so low only he could hear. “I’m not doing anything I find bothersome, so you best not take any offense. It will annoy me.”
“Yes, pet.” The words came out a rough, sensual purr. “I’d hate to annoy you, darling Tyriel.”
“You beast. And stop acting so dangerous. You aren’t supposed to attract too much attention.”
The rigidity slowly left his shoulders. After a couple of deep breaths, he banked his anger.
Banked it, though. It wasn’t gone; she could still feel the rage pumping off of him in waves.
“Let’s find you a table, min brun,” she said. Turning away, she tossed the cleaning rag into a bucket and glanced around the mostly empty tavern.
She hadn’t expected him until later in the day, or perhaps the following dawn. She’d cast the call for aid, uncertain if any of her kin would be close enough to help and had been both surprised and curious when she learned Jaren had been the one to feel the spell’s ripple.
“Can you tell me why you sent for me?” he asked as he settled on the wide, hard bench at the table.
“Aye. But I need to let the publican know I’m going to sit.” Before he could respond, she lifted a hand. “I’m playing a part, Jaren. Don’t ruin it. You’ll understand soon enough.”
* * * * *
Tired and with a headache from drinking too much ale the night before, Aryn left his bed far later than normal.
He thought perhaps some hot cava and a meal, then a few minutes with Tyriel to explain all he’d seen might ease the sourness in his gut.
Instead, he walked into the public room of the tavern and found her in deep conversation with a man so utterly beautiful, it made Aryn want to rearrange his face.
It did not help that Tyriel sat across from him, smiling bright as she spoke with him, her features animated and open in a way he’d never seen.
Another fae, Aryn noted, then reevaluated not even a moment later as he took in more about the man’s appearance.
An elvish warrior, and one with whom Tyriel clearly knew rather well.
The intimate smile on her lips as she leaned in closer, and the warmth reflected on the man’s face said it all too well.
“Master Aryn! A good morning to you.”
Gordie, the publican, came striding toward him, his voice too loud, eyes too wide, and Aryn saw the greeting for what it was easily enough. The pub owner, concerned Aryn might take jealous offense at the flirtation between ‘his’ woman and the stranger at the table so he was giving Tyriel time to set things straight.
Although gods knew, had this been a real relationship between them, he’d have given her plenty of reason to not only stray, but to boot him out on his ass. But if she had been his…
“She could be.”
“Bloody fuck,” Aryn snapped, forgetting to keep the words silent as he cut Irian off.
Gordie froze, as did every other soul in the pub, save for Tyriel and her…friend. Her bright laughter rang through the room and Aryn felt all eyes turn toward him.
Except for Tyriel.
And her friend.
The fucking elf.
“Master Aryn,” Gordie tried again. “Your lady tells me that a friend of yours is here, Lord Jaren of Averne, a noble from the High Kingdoms.”
Not just an elf. A fucking noble.
Aryn wanted to run him through and he hadn’t even met the man.
But he looked at Gordie—the poor tavern keeper looked like he might expire from a heart storm.
Aryn had never wanted so much to commit utter, bloody violence and mayhem. And he couldn’t do a damn thing.
“Yes.” Forcing a smile, he relaxed the tense muscles in his body one by one. “It’s been an age but we made plans to meet up in these parts. Thank you for welcoming him.”
Aware people were perplexed, he lowered his voice. “He saved her once, the poor girl. She’s always been dazzled by the Kin. I put up with it. We all have our weaknesses and if that’s her only flaw…well. We don’t see him that often and it’s not like he’ll run over with her and steal her from me, is it?”
He had no idea if that trite bit of idiocy would work, but he could barely think through the red swath of rage coating his mind. Cutting around Gordie, he made for the table where Tyriel sat with her friend—his table.
That was where he sat, and where she sat with him on rare occasion. Now she sat with one of her own.
I’m a bloody fool.
He took the seat next to Tyriel and saw cool, bright green eyes cut into him even as Tyriel said in a voice too low to carry, “Say nothing, Jaren. We’re playing a part and you will not interfere.”
The air was so cold, ice could have formed as the two men stared at each other.
Finally, the elvish warrior looked at Tyriel. “As you will, my lady.”
“Really, Aryn. My only flaw?”
Aryn looked over at his partner as she touched his arm.
He gazed into her wicked, laughing eyes and forced a smile. “Well, I could have mentioned that you snore, too. But what would be the point of that?”
“Ugh.” She rolled her eyes. “As if anybody would hear my snoring over yours.”
* * * * *
Gordie, once no longer terrified his pub might suffer wrack and ruin at the hands of a jealous mate, became enamored with having a fae lord in his pub. He’d gone out of his way to welcome Jaren, calling for a servant to run to the market in search of better fare and what had been a rather tame meal turned into one fit for a king—or as close as the small-townsfolk could remember experiencing.
Jaren, arrogant bastard he was, had set aside his normally aloof ways and enjoyed the revelries, spinning tales of battles he’d fought, side by side fae lords who were all but lost to legend outside the fae lands.
When benches were pushed aside and one barmaid entreated Tyriel to play, Jaren surprised even her by pulling out an instrument of his own, a piece made of wood and string he used to bring forth melodies so beautiful, it seemed a sin to play such music for anybody but divine beings.
When someone asked how to thank him for such music, he’d winked and nodded at Tyriel. “Ask her to dance for the next one.”
“Are we here to parade about like popinjays or is there some task before us?” Aryn muttered.