“No.” Alan stumbled—not from clumsiness; he was not clumsy. He was a werewolf. But he was torn between loyalty to Ruby and the demands of a dominant wolf. The power gap was so large between a submissive wolf and Asil that Alan’s resistance was impressive.
His refusal could not last, but Asil decided to wait until theywere off the stairway before he forced the issue. If Alan fell all the way down the stairs he’d make enough noise to summon the others. He would try persuasion first.
“I can help,” Asil assured him instead, knowing Alan would hear the truth in his words. “I understand you wish your Ruby—”
Our Ruby, growled his wolf. And it was far too soon for that.
“—would tell me everything herself,” he told Alan as they came to the ground floor. For lack of another goal, he continued into the reception room and dropped the cords to the ground. “But I do not think we are going to have so much time.”
Alan shook his head, hunching his shoulders as he dropped his cords onto the ground on top of Asil’s. “It isn’t my place—”
Asil could make him—they both knew it.
“You must,” Asil said, his voice gentle.
But he backed off again because the pressure he was putting on the submissive wolf was bothering his own wolf—submissives were to be cared for.
He said, “There are few others in history who have been as strong, as capable as I.”
It was not his habit to affect false modesty. That others were unused to meeting someone of his abilities—of his beauty—was not his problem. That did not mean he didn’t understand how his statements of truth affected people.
He expected to amuse Alan, to soften the atmosphere so they could better converse.
“I know,” said Alan.
Pleased, Asil continued, “It is my place to protect the innocent because they cannot protect themselves.” He tipped Alan’s face up to meet Asil’s eyes, knowing that his wolf peered out, too. It was not a threat—and it was something he had not dared do since before this city was built on a swamp—to allow his wolf suchfreedom. “That is your job, too. Protect your people, Alan Choo. Tell me what you know.”
Alan’s lips parted—and closed again as they both heard Ruby running down the stairs.
Ruby held a wire for Max and privately came to the conclusion that by the time they were through fixing the camera, not even Miranda would be able to get it to work again. Something tugged at her shirt.
She looked over her shoulder to see Dusty, his face expressionless as always, pointing to where Alan and Asil had just been.
He is questioning our wolf.Though Dusty’s face was several feet from her, his voice whispered directly into her ear and let puffs of air brush past her cheek. From long practice she didn’t jump. Dusty was harmless. Mostly.
She let the wire go and ignored Max’s indignant exclamation. “Peg,” she said. “Take over here. Terry, don’t let Max kill Peg or vice versa. I have to go hunt down my date.”
She thought Dusty might come with her—he tended to follow drama—but she was alone as she ran down the stairs. Charming and sweet he might be, but Asil was more dominant—and in her limited experience, dominant wolves didn’t even know when they were being overbearing.
She heard Asil say, his voice warm and soft, “Tell me what you know.”
Ruby found them in the reception room and took in the body language with something approaching fury. “Are you bullying Alan?” she asked—though it wasn’t a question.
“No.” To her surprise, when Alan turned to her there was a smile on his face. His smile widened and his voice was peacefulwhen he approached her. He kissed her cheek. “No, he isn’t. You need to tell him about your problem. He’s promised to help. I’m going upstairs to keep everyone in the ballroom until you’re finished.”
And he left her alone with her date.
Asil raised an eyebrow at her. “What do you have to lose?” he said. “Whoever has you bound is coming, no?”
“I can run,” she told him.
His liquid eyes grew sad. “No,querida mía. You are tired of running. This is why you have summoned me.”
She stared at him, feeling tears gathering in her eyes, and she did not know why, except she wanted—oh, how she wanted to give him her trouble. And it had nothing to do with him—and everything to do with the burning sensation radiating from her tattoo.
“He is nearly here,” she told him, whispering it. “He isn’t supposed to come yet.”
“Tell me,” he said, his eyes the color of Medici gold—old, violent, and compelling. His voice was rich with invitation, coaxing her to trust him.
