“Hurvi, I’ll walk with Soraia back to the front door.”
The castratus nodded and led the way. Ursula linked her arm with the other woman’s and walked beside her. Zul fell into step behind them, keeping a watchful eye on his mate as always.
When she met Bran and Gil at the door where they stood facing the sheriff and mayor, the latter two wore closed, wooden expressions on their faces. Soraia disengaged herself from her hostess’ light grasp and scuttled to take her place between her mates.
“Remember what I said,” Bran said as Hurvi and another castratus opened the tall doors leading outside.
The sheriff and mayor bowed their heads, a gesture of both acknowledgement and subservience as they submitted to the Prime’s crushing dominance. Without further ado, they turned, ushering their mate ahead of them, and departed.
When the doors closed behind them, Ursula said, “What the hell was that about?”
Gil answered, “The sheriff and mayor gave offense.”
“They have seen the error of their ways,” Bran added, propping his hands on his waist. His tone oozed satisfaction.
Ursula snorted. “I doubt that.”
Gil grinned, showing his teeth. “Oh, Bran’s locked in to them now. Any misstep on their part, and we get to tear them to pieces.”
Ursula’s eyes widened. The bloodthirsty tone of Gil’s voice indicated that he meant what he said—and looked forward to the violence. She took a breath. “Soraia’s terrified of them, you know.”
“She no longer needs to fear them, but she will need your friendship to build her courage,” Bran said with confidence.
“She has it,” Ursula vowed. If anyone needed a friend and advocate, it was the sheriff and mayor’s mate.
Chapter 25
“Be nice to Zul,” Gil said as he and Bran bade their mate and their son goodbye two days after the festival. Zul stood behind their mate, his hand resting possessively on her shoulder. Crow huddled against his mother’s leg, his hand tightly clutching her vivid blue skirt. He’d bade goodbye to his fathers all too often already in his young life.
“When are you coming back?” Ursula asked again because they hadn’t answered the question the first six times she asked. Perhaps the seventh time was the charm.
“We don’t know,elska’adir,” Bran replied. Honesty compelled him to finally admit, “We might not be able to return.”
Ursula paled, her usual pink complexion going ashen. “Are we at war again?”
“Still,” Bran corrected her, his voice gentle if somber. “But, no, we have not been deployed. We are…”
His voice died away as he searched for the right words.
Gil rescued him. “We’re headed to the capital for political reasons.”
Liberté, égalité, fraternité, she thought and whispered, “Who’s playing Napoleon?”
“Napoleon?” the two males echoed in confusion.
“Nevermind,” she said with a wave of her hand. “I’m not stupid. I know all those secret discussions I’m not supposed to be aware of have had something to do with politics. I know you—and I—have been unhappy with the Council Supreme’s machinations to reassign fertile brides to unbroken triad and dyad bonds.”
Gil, Zul, and Bran exchanged glances over her head.
“You’re very… perceptive,” Zul murmured, his hand tightening on their mate’s shoulder.
“Like I said: I’m not stupid.”
All three males winced at her acerbic tone.
She explained how she came to her insight: “If you’re engaging in political activity that may result in you being unable to return home, then it means you’re engaging inillegalactivity, possibly sedition or even treason.”
“As he said, you’re perceptive,” Bran acknowledged with grim pride. “You must saynothingto anyone.”
