Right. Rune and Severin it is.
“I need your help,” I grit out through a clenched jaw. Just because I logically know I need to ask for their assistance doesn’t make it easy to actually do so. Using dispassionate scholarly language, I explain what happened yesterday evening without providing any salacious details.
When I finally grind to a halt, all four men stare at me, looks of disbelief clouding their faces.
“Okay, let me see if I got this straight,” Shadow says. “You had sex with Skye for the first time, and you immediately started asking questions and taking notes?” The werepanther’s eyes go wide with feigned horror, and he punches my biceps. “By the goddess, for such an intelligent man, you’re very,verystupid.”
My lips curl back from my fangs in a snarl, my tail thrashing.
“It turns out there are different types of intelligence,” Rune rumbles. “He lacks emotional intelligence.”
“Emotional intelligence?” I glare at the werewolf, threads of smoke leaking from the corners of my mouth as my internal fire flares. “What would you know about emotional intelligence?”
“More than you.” He takes a drink.
“He’s got you there.” The chiseled lines of Severin’s face fall into a smirk.
“Don’t you start.” I jab a claw at him. “You were a warrior king who decimated entire realms!”
“I got better.” He shrugs, the movement annoyingly graceful without the burden of wings. “Hannah made me better… or made me want tobebetter. It’s the same result in the end.”
“So you need to get better too, or you’re going to lose Skye,” Shadow says.
Thorvinn grunts. “I don’t have any advice, but I do have something much stronger.” He pulls out a bottle of whisky and lines up a series of shot glasses, filling them in one long pour.
Alcohol has no effect on me in my natural dragon form, or at least it doesn’t in any reasonable quantity—perhaps if I drank an entire pond’s worth of alcohol, I’d notice it. It takes a lot to inebriate a fae, even in my weredragon form, and ales and ciders have little more effect than water. But I haven’t yet tried orcish whisky.
Shadow raises his glass. “To the four of us who aren’t Luke, because we’re about to dig his ass out of the damned deep hole he just dropped himself into.”
The others say, “Hear, hear,” and clink glasses.
I scowl at the grinning werepanther and toss the whiskey back, fire burning down my throat and mixing with the churning feeling in my chest.
Shadow slams his glass back down onto the bar and points at me. “Okay, let’s make a plan.”
“For a grovel,” Severin says.
Rune gives a serious nod. “A good one.”
Which is how I find myself two hours later, standing in the foyer of my castle, waiting for Skye to open the door, an “I’m sorry” present overflowing my hands.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Skye
I pop a few candy hearts into my mouth and roll them across my tongue, waiting for the familiar taste to offer a bit of cinnamon-fueled courage. After sharing a nod with Princess Buttercup, I ease open the door to Luke’s castle, wincing at the sound it makes. If only it weren’t a giant slab of wood that could double as a fudging ark in the event of flooding, because “small” and “quiet” are pretty much the last words you’d ever use to describe this door.
I just… I want one more night to gather myself before I have to face Luke again. One more night to soothe the hurt of his disinterest—or maybe “clinical interest” is a better descriptor. He’s just so gorgeous, and I’ve crushed on him for months, so to finallybewith Luke only for it to mean nothing to him… it’s a lot.
Princess Buttercup slips through the crack, and I follow,sidling sideways, my boobs squished almost flat. I watch my feet as I pivot around the edge of the door, holding onto it to keep it from slamming shut. It inches closed, settling into place with one last snick, and I exhale in relief. I did it—I got in without him noticing. That was the hardest part. Now I just need to sneak up to my—
“Mom,” Princess Buttercup says, her voice as loud as normal. “You need to turn around.”
“Shhh. He’ll hear you,” I whisper-hiss. But I do as she says and spin, only to stumble backwards in shock, hand pressed to chest, shoulder blades bumping against the door.
Luke looms over me, scowling down at Princess Buttercup. “I gestured for you to remain quiet.”
“Yeah, well, she’s my witch.” She weaves a circle around my ankles before standing beside me, her body pressed against my leg in a reassuring touch. “I’m onherside, not yours.”
