Which was why I grabbed one man’s shoulder before my brain registered that I was moving.
“Who’s in charge here?” My fingers dug into the guy’s collarbone hard enough to feel the joint grind. The silverware tray in his hands rattled a staccato beat against his ribs.
“Cas.” Ko’s murmur held an edge of reproach.
“Mr. Storms, sir.” The man’s throat bobbed. “Gregory Storms handles—”
“Point him out.”
After I released him, he led us to an office, where a brown-haired man stood up as we entered, his tailored suit screaming management.
“Ah! The Cimmerian princes! I’m Gregory Storms, your estate manager. How may I—”
“Why wasn’t this circus performing yesterday?” My thumb found the stress point between my eyebrows. Already pulsing.
“I received explicit instructions to vacate the premises.” Gregory’s eyes flicked to each of our faces, a hint of confusion in his brown eyes. “Lady Arabesque Harrow explained that the bride required privacy on her first day here.”
“Privacy?” Zane barked a laugh sharp enough to slice glass. “Yeah, I bet that fang-rotted bitch didn’t want anyone around yesterday.”
Arabesque had orchestrated this perfectly, cleared the battlefield, leaving our beloved unprotected, alone, vulnerable, with no one to help her while Amabel and Eluned sunk their claws into her. My knuckles itched to hit something, preferably Arabesque’s smug face.
“Bullshit,” I said. “She wanted Seri defenseless. And you went along with it.”
Gregory’s composure faltered for the first time, his brow furrowing.
“I— I had no reason to question it. Lady Arabesque is—”
“Not in charge here,” I interrupted, stepping closer. “You answer to me, Koa, Zane, or our wife. No one else. Understood?”
“Of course. My apologies.” He nodded quickly, almost too quickly.
My vision tunneled until all I saw were security gaps: unmanned gates, unwatched corridors, strangers with access to Seri’s meals…
Too many unknowns.Too many variables.
“Assemble the staff, Mr. Storms,” I snapped. “Foyer.Now.”
He opened his mouth, looked at my face, closed his mouth, and picked up a slim tablet from his desk. Thirty seconds later, “Westminster Quarters” played through hidden speakers.
We headed to the foyer, and the staff arrived quickly: Three women smelling of cleaning products, the silverware man from earlier, a chubby old chef wiping her hands on a white apron, and a teenage boy still clutching a potato peeler. I assessed each face as a potential threat while Gregory recited roles like an auctioneer listing livestock.
“Two groundskeepers are at work outside,” he said last. “Shall I call for them?”
“Later.” I raised my voice a fraction as I addressed the staff. “New protocols effective immediately. You take orders from four people only: the three of us and our wife, Serafina. Any directive from another source is reported to one of us within five minutes. Failure means termination. Questions?”
Gregory cleared his throat. “Might I suggest—”
“No.” Koa stepped forward, eyes scanning the staff with his usual unsettling intensity. “Our beloved was attacked when she arrived here yesterday.”
He paused as the four female staff gasped, and the kitchen boy’s eyes widened, his lips parting.
Gregory didn’t react. Not so much as an eyelid twitch.
Damnation. He’s Arabesque’s.
“She is recovering in her room with her pet wolf,” Ko went on. “You don’t approach her, you don’t disturb her, you don’t so much as walk by her door without express permission from one of us. Otherwise, you’ll lose your head.”
“Also known aspermanenttermination,” Zane added with a toothy grin.
