The tavern had gone silent again. Every shifter in the place watched them with held breath, waiting to see if this would end in blood or something worse.
Maeve pulled back first. Forced herself to step away, to breathe, to remember she'd built walls for a reason.
"Out," she said. "Now."
"Maeve—"
"Now." She turned her back on him, a calculated insult. "Before I forget I'm a businesswoman and remember I'm a lion."
She heard him exhale. Heard his boots on the wooden floor as he approached the door. Heard the soft chime as he pulled it open, letting in cold air and the promise of snow.
"This isn't over," he said.
"It never started."
The door closed behind him.
Maeve waited until his footsteps faded before she let herself lean against the bar. Her hands shook. Her lioness paced and snarled and wanted to chase after him, to claim or kill or something in between.
"Well," Breck said into the silence. "That was something."
"Shut up and drink your whiskey."
"Yes ma'am." He raised his glass. "For what it's worth? He looked like he'd been gutted."
"Good." She poured herself another shot. "He earned it."
The other patrons stirred, conversation starting back up in low murmurs. Speculation about who Dante was, what history lay between them, whether Maeve Cross had finally met a male she couldn't handle.
Let them talk. Let them gossip. She'd weathered worse.
But when she closed her eyes, all she saw was amber fire and that crooked almost-smile that said he knew exactly how to push her buttons.
Damn him.
Damn him for coming back.
And damn her lioness for wanting him to stay.
4
DANTE
The Council Glade sat deep in Hollow Oak's woods, hidden by more than trees and snow. Magic thrummed through the clearing, old fae enchantments woven so tight that even Dante's lion could feel them pressing against his skin. He'd been here once before, years ago, when Callum had first petitioned for sanctuary.
Back when they'd still been friends.
The path wound between ancient oaks, their branches bare and reaching toward a gray winter sky. Dawn light filtered through in weak shafts, catching on frost and making the whole forest look like something out of a dream. Or a warning.
Dante pulled his jacket tighter and kept walking.
Varric Thornwell waited in the middle of the glade, standing beside a stone table that had been there longer than anyone could remember. The wolf elder looked every one of his centuries, long silver braids draped over his shoulders and gray eyes that had seen too much. He wore dark robes against the cold and held himself with the kind of stillness that came from years of practice and discipline.
"Deleuve." Varric's voice carried across the clearing. "You made good time."
"You said it was urgent." Dante stopped a respectful distance away. "Where's the rest of the Council?"
"Not here." Varric gestured to the stone table, where papers lay weighted down by a smooth river rock. "This meeting is off the record. Emmett Hollowell can't be seen investigating one of his own. Neither can I, officially. But someone needs to look into this before it becomes a bigger problem."
