Maybe.
Tread carefully. There are so many laws and rules and shit that you don’t know about. I can fill you in, but … this is a whole new level of the game. You have to be on alert.
She faced him, offering a broad grin that didn’t meet her eyes before taking a few steps toward Athalar. “If dear old dad wants a princess,” she said, looking more like their father than he’d ever witnessed, “then he’ll get one.”
“Dreadwolves prowling the Old Square,” Hypaxia hissed under her breath to Tharion as she peered out the window of her private suite on the second floor of the elegant embassy.
Despite the plush furniture, the room definitely belonged to a witch: a small crystal altar to Cthona adorned the eastern wall, covered in various tools of worship; a large obsidian scrying mirror hung above it; and the fireplace built into the southern wall had various iron arms, presumably to hold cauldrons during spells. A royal suite, yes, but a workroom as well.
“I hate the sight of them,” the queen went on, the streetlights casting her beautiful face in golden hues. “Those uniforms. The silver darts on their collars.” He wondered how many people ever saw her so unguarded. “Rebel-hunters. That’s what they are.”
Indeed, where they walked, revelers fell silent. Tourists stopped snapping photos.
“Tell me how you really feel, Pax,” Tharion said, crossing his arms.
The queen whirled toward him. “I wish you’d stop using that nickname. Ever since the Summit—”
“Ever since then, you’ve missed me using it?” He gave her his most charming smile.
She rolled her eyes, but he caught the slight curl of her lips.
He asked, “Have you kept up the tally? How many times has Prince Ruhn gawked at you since you arrived?”
She flushed. “He doesn’t gawk.”
“I think our final tally at the Summit was … thirty? Forty?”
She whacked him on the chest.
“I missed you,” he said, grinning.
She grinned back. “What does your fiancée have to say about that?” She was one of the few people who knew. During their initial meeting at the Summit—an accidental encounter late one night when she’d sought some solitude at one of the mer’s subterranean pools and found him seeking the same—they’d spoken of their various … obligations. A friendship had immediately sprung up.
Tharion countered, “What does your fiancé have to say about it?”
The witch laughed softly, the sound like silver bells. “You’re the one who’s been associating with him. You tell me.”
He chuckled, but his amusement fell away, his voice becoming serious. “He’s concerned enough about you that he told some of us about your coven. Why didn’t you tell me?” He’d grab any one of them who harmed her and drown them. Slowly.
She searched his face. He let her. “What could you have done?”
Well, that stung. Especially because she was right. He let out a long sigh. He wished he could tell her—about the fact that he’d bought himself a small stretch of freedom. That he would only go back to the Blue Court to keep up appearances, that he’d pretend Emile Renast was still on the loose for as long as he could, but … Would he go back after that? Could he go back?
Maybe he’d get in touch with the Ocean Queen’s people and beg for asylum. Maybe they’d shelter his family, too.
He’d opened his mouth to speak when a ripple went through the street below. People stopped. Some pressed against buildings.
“What the fuck are they doing here?” Tharion growled.
Mordoc and the Hammer stalked down the street, wolf and angel sneering at all in their path. They seemed to savor the quiet and dread that trailed in their wake.
Hypaxia’s brows raised. “Not friends of yours?”
He put a hand on his heart. “You wound me, Pax.”
The queen’s mouth thinned as Pollux and Mordoc crossed the intersection. “It’s an ill omen, to see them here.”
“Maybe they want to make sure all is well, considering what attacked tonight.”
Mighty Ogenas, creatures straight from the Pit. He’d been enjoying a drink with a pride of lioness shifters at a wine bar when he’d gotten the call. He’d come here, claiming an investigative visit from the Blue Court, but … “You sure you’re all right?” he asked, glad to pivot from the two monsters on the street.
“I’m fine,” Hypaxia said, turning weary, sad eyes toward him. “Miss Quinlan proved herself a valuable ally in a fight.” He liked the idea of the two of them becoming friendly. They’d be a formidable pair against any opponent.
“What’d your coven say about the attack?” Tharion asked, glancing to the shut double doors across the room. Pollux and Mordoc vanished down the street. As if they’d all been frozen, people suddenly began moving again. None went in the direction the Hammer and the dreadwolf had gone.
“My coven feigned outrage, of course. It’s not worth recounting.”
Fair enough. “You should get some sleep. You must be exhausted from healing Holstrom.”
“Not at all.” Her gaze again lifted to his face. “But you … you should go. Another few minutes and suspicions will be raised.”
“Oh?” He couldn’t resist teasing. “Like what?”
She flushed again. “Like we’re doing things we shouldn’t.”
“Sounds naughty.”
She playfully shoved him toward the door. He let her, walking backward as he said, “I’ll see you soon, okay? You have my number.”
Her eyes shone like stars. “Thank you for checking on me.”
“Anything for you, Pax.” Tharion shut the door behind him and found himself face-to-face with three witches. All members of her coven, if his memory of the Summit served him. All cold-faced and unamused. “Ladies,” he said, inclining his head.
None of them answered, and as they converged on the queen’s suite with a knock on her door, he suppressed the instinct to return to her side.
But it wasn’t his place, and he still had one more task tonight. First, though, he needed a dip in the Istros to make sure his fins stayed intact.
Thirty minutes later, still wet, Tharion walked up to the peeling front door of the near-collapsing house off Archer Street, music blasting from the windows despite the late hour. Tharion knocked, loudly enough to be heard over the bass.
A moment later, the door opened. Tharion smiled crookedly at Ruhn, and waved to Tristan Flynn and Declan Emmett standing in the foyer behind him. “Got space for one more roommate?”
57
Hunt waited until he and Bryce had entered the apartment, the door firmly shut behind them, before he said, “I’m a prince now?”
Bryce slumped onto the couch. “Welcome to the club.”
“Your father really did this?”
She nodded glumly. “My mom is going to freak.”
Hunt stalked to the couch. “What about you, Bryce? Your mom can deal with it. I can deal with this, believe it or not. But … are you okay?”
She only stroked Syrinx’s coat.
He scented salt and water, then, and sat on the new coffee table, lifting her chin between his thumb and forefinger to find tears running down her cheeks. Ones he had no doubt she’d been holding back for hours.