It did, to one of wariness mixed with anticipation. Good. He didn’t deserve to be in control.
Quesnel wasn’t one to stay confused. Before she could turn and walk back up the gangplank, knowing that her dress looked even better from behind, he snaked out an arm and pulled her in.
This time he kissed her and it was not so sweet, instead quite scalding. Rue gasped a protest into his mouth. She supposed one ought to close one’s eyes, but she kept hers open, yellow staring into violet. A violet Cyclops, this close up. It was a good kiss. She liked everything about it – the warm taste of him, the steady arm, the smell of machine oil and fresh lime. She would have melted against him except for that stupid corset. She could feel the heat of his hand on her waist all the way through the layers.
There was a roaring in her ears, which did confuse her a little. After all, Quesnel had kissed her before. And while it was quite wonderful, for he was a superb kisser, it hadn’t caused auditory hallucinations in the past. Aha, thought Rue. That must be actual roaring. Who’s roaring at us?
Something large and hairy yanked Quesnel away and pushed him back. Quesnel looked dazed by their kiss. Although it could have been the fact that standing between them was Rue’s very angry father. Her birth father, mind you, the werewolf, Lord Maccon.
Rue adored her Paw but he did operate mainly on emotion. Today, he was looking rough. He was an Alpha and old, thus one of the few werewolves who could withstand full sunlight. But under the soft afternoon glow, he did not look healthy. There were lines carved into his face and his salted dark hair was limp. He was scruffy, not uncommon since he slept the day through touching Mother, which meant he was mortal enough to grow a beard. But Lady Maccon usually stayed around so he could shave it off after. Rue’s mother was not fond of beards.
“Good afternoon, Paw.” Rue spoke calmly. “Where have you been?”
Lord Maccon watched her out of glassy yellow eyes, so like her own. Well, except for the glassy bit. He turned his head to glare at Quesnel, teeth bared.
The inventor was trying to look unruffled. But Lord Maccon was very large and, even in sunlight, very strong. Quesnel, while fit, was nowhere near his fighting weight. Rue wouldn’t put it past her chief engineer to be armed with silver, possibly several iterations thereof, but she hoped he wasn’t inclined to permanently damage her father.
It was an odd thought, that Paw might need protection. But he did look most unwell.
“Paw.” Rue put a gentling hand to his arm. It was full daylight so she could touch him without hairy repercussions. For while her mother’s power worked under sunlight, Rue’s did not. As a little girl, she’d always loved it when Paw was awake during the day. He gave the best hugs. “What’s wrong?”
He stayed distracted, growling at Quesnel.
Rue’s beloved Paw was, as her mother often put it, only barely civilised. Yet this was a bit much, even for him. Not that it was odd for an aristocratic father to become agitated at finding his only daughter in a clinch with a commoner on a croquet green. But Lord Maccon was looking, and there was no politer way of putting it, not in control.
“Paw, I wasn’t in danger. Mr Lefoux and I have an understanding.” Well, she corrected the little lie in her head, I understand that he is no longer to be taken seriously and that I should keep my heart out of it. And I also understand that I might as well keep trying to seduce him because a man who kisses that well has got to be good at more than kissing. Rue’s curiosity, it should be pointed out at this juncture, had got her into more scrapes than it ought. She should know better. But there was that kiss.
Lord Maccon didn’t move. Just kept growling. Rue shifted into panic. This was different. He was already over the edge. Whatever cliff it was that tumbled werewolves into animal, he had fallen to the bottom of it.
Rue spoke carefully, trying to pull him back to her with the firmness of her voice. “Paw, are you able to speak?”
He didn’t answer, simply stared at Quesnel. Had it been night, he would most certainly be a wolf. But the sun kept him human. Well, human-looking.
“Don’t run,” Rue advised her chief engineer. “He’ll only chase.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Quesnel sounded as though he, too, might be losing the ability to speak.
“Are you tarnished?”
Quesnel inclined his head.
“Can you pull? Slowly?”
Quesnel moved with liquid grace, reaching with his right hand to scrunch back the cuff on his left arm. This revealed a dart emitter on his wrist. He made a tapping flick to load it, no doubt with silver. Not big enough to do serious damage, but if applied to the right area it could certainly slow a werewolf down.
Rue let out a shaky breath and returned her focus to her father.
“Paw, look at me. Please.”
He didn’t move.