“It could get messy—but in certain cases, it’s worth the risk.”
Sola glanced around the pub. Lot of people. Lot of talk. Air that was hot and thick.
She frowned and stiffened. In the far corner, something…someone…
“You okay?”
She shook herself free of the paranoia. “Yes, sorry—oh, yes, we’d like to order,” she said as the waitress returned. “I’ll have a cheeseburger. Assuming my personal trainer doesn’t throw an embolism from disapproval.”
Mark laughed. “Make that two. But hold the fries. On both plates.”
As the waitress took off, Sola tried not to look in the direction of that dark, back corner. “So…”
“I didn’t think you’d ever take me up on this. I asked you out how long ago?”
As Mark smiled, she noticed that he had fantastic teeth, straight and really white. “It’s been a while, I guess. I’ve been busy.”
“So what do you do for a living?”
“This and that.”
“In what field?”
Ordinarily, she got pissed quick when people became nosy. But his affect was calm and easy, so this was just date conversation.
“I guess you could call it criminal justice.”
“Oh, you’re into the law.”
“I’m very familiar with it, yes.”
“That’s cool.” Mark cleared his throat. “So…you look really good.”
“Thanks. I think it’s my trainer.”
“Oh, somehow I think you’d be doing fine without me.”
As they fell into an uncomplicated back-and-forth, she actually started to relax—and then their dinners arrived and they got another round of beer. It was so…normal being in the bar, doing the one-on-one thing, getting to know somebody else.
The exact opposite of what she’d played witness to the night before.
Sola shivered as images came back to her…the candlelight, that black-haired man looming over the half-naked woman like he was going to devour her, the two of them unleashed and uninhibited….Then those glittering eyes looking up and meeting her own through the glass as if he’d known all along that she was watching.
“You okay?”
Sola forced herself to focus. “Sorry, yes. You were saying?”
As Mark resumed talking about his training for the Iron Man, she found herself back in the cold outside of that cottage, watching that man and that woman.
Shoot. She’d engineered this date only because she’d wanted an outlet. It wasn’t because she particularly cared about Mark, as nice as he was.
In fact, maybe she had done this because her personal trainer happened to be really tall, and really well built, with very dark hair and very pale eyes.
When guilt rang her bell, she thought, oh, for chrissakes. She was an adult. Mark was an adult. People had sex for all kinds of different reasons—just because she didn’t want to marry the guy didn’t mean she was breaking some cardinal rule…except, crap. Her grandmother’s morality aside, and his shiny, pearly whites and big shoulders to the contrary, she wasn’t actually attracted to Mark.
She was attracted to the man Mark reminded her of.
And that was what made this wrong.
FIFTY-THREE
Even though Qhuinn was hardly an arbiter of taste when it came to meetings of the Council, it was pretty damn clear to him that the assembled group had come to the house expecting one thing, only to get something else entirely.
Wrath didn’t waste or mince words and, after laying the smack-down, wrapped things up within five or ten minutes.
This was a good thing, actually. The faster he finished, the quicker they could get him home.
“In closing,” the king said in his bass voice, “I appreciate the opportunity to address this august group.”
In this case, “august” clearly meant “a-hole-ish.”
“I have other commitments at this time.” Namely, staying alive. “So I will be departing. However, if you have any comments, please direct them to Tohrment, son of Hharm.”
A blink of the eye later and the king left the building with V and Zsadist.
In the wake of the departure, all the fancy-pants in the dining room stayed sitting in their chairs, shock and now-what playing across their attractive features. Clearly, they had expected more…but also less. Kind of like children who had pushed their parents too far and finally gotten a wooden spoon on the ass.
From Qhuinn’s perspective, it was pretty fucking amusing, actually.
The party finally began to break up after the hostess rose to her feet and yammered on about what an honor it was to have had all the yada, yada, yada.
Qhuinn cared about one and only one thing.
And that was the text that came through on his phone about a minute later: Wrath was home safe.
Exhaling slowly, he put his cell back in the inside pocket of his leather jacket and thought about setting off a couple of rounds into the floorboards to get this bunch of stiffs to dance a little. He’d probably get in trouble for that, though.
Bummer.
The crowd started to file out shortly thereafter, to the clear dissatisfaction of the hostess, as if she had gotten dressed up and rearranged her house with the expectation of a long, socially prominent evening—only to find that all she got were two seconds of celebrity and a bucket of KFC for eats.
Sorry, lady.
Tohrment lorded over the exodus, standing in front of the fireplace, nodding his head, saying a few words. In this delegation, Wrath had made a wise choice. The Brother had the appearance of an ass-kicker, with all his weapons, but he’d always been willing and internally inclined to be a peacemaker, and that was no different tonight.
He was especially nice to Marissa when Butch’s mate left, his face showing a flash of genuine affection as he hugged her and nodded as the cop escorted her out. That slice of real was immediately replaced by his professional mask, however.
Eventually, the hostess helped her ancient hellren to his feet, and made some noise about taking him upstairs.
And then there was only one.
Elan, son of Larex, lingered before the bank of draped windows.
Qhuinn had had an eye on the guy the whole time, counting exactly how many of the Council members came up to him, shook his hand, murmured in his ear.
Each and every one.
So it was not exactly a surprise that instead of leaving like a good little boy, he made his way up to the fireplace like he wanted an audience.
Great.
As Elan approached Tohr, the closer he got, the more he had to lift his chin to keep eye contact with the Brother.
“It was quite an honor to have an audience with your king,” the gentlemale said gravely. “I hung on his every word.”
Tohr murmured something in return.
“And I’ve been struggling with something,” the aristocrat hedged. “I was hoping to speak with him directly about this, but…”
Yeah, don’t hold your breath for that, buddy.
Tohr stepped in to fill the silence. “Anything you tell me will go straight to the king’s ears, without filter or interpretation. And the fighters in this room are sworn to secrecy. They will die before they repeat a word.”
Elan glanced over at Rehv, clearly expecting a similiar pledge from the male.
“The same goes for me,” Rehvenge muttered as he leaned into his cane.
Abruptly, Elan’s chest puffed up as if this kind of personalized attention was more what he’d been hoping for out of the meeting. “Well, this has lain heavily upon my heart.”
Certainly not your pecs, Qhuinn thought. You’re built like a ten-year-old boy.
“And that is,” Tohr prompted.
Elan crossed his arms behind the small of his back and paced a bit—as if he were taking time with his words. Something told Qhuinn that they had been prepared beforehand, however—though he couldn’t have said what it was.
“I expected your king to address a certain rumor that I have heard.”
“Which is?” Tohr said in an even tone.
Elan stopped. Turned. Spoke clearly. “That he was shot back in the fall.”
No one showed any reaction. Not Tohr or Rehv. Not the remaining Brothers in the room. Certainly not Qhuinn or his boys.
“What is your source for this?” Tohr asked.