I have no answers—only more questions.
39
Lucian
Having one Curvy Queen under my roof is dangerous—having two is courting catastrophe.
Gods.
The Magistrate must not learn of this.
Two Curvy Queens in the Crimson Spires—two human women with abundant flesh and latent magic—would be enough to provoke an investigation at the very least. At worst, it would invite punishment. The Magistrate does not tolerate imbalance, and Curvy Queens tilt the scales of power wherever they go. Wars have been fought over them. Cities razed. Entire realms destabilized.
And now I have brought that danger directly into my stronghold.
I rake a hand through my hair and turn away, my thoughts already racing ahead. Whistler will have to be summoned again. The Realm Hopper is careless, but he is also singularly skilled. If anyone can find a way to return Hanna to the Human Realm without tearing open the fabric between worlds, it is him.
Still… I cannot simply eject her like contraband—Julia would never forgive me. And more importantly—I would not forgive myself.
Any friend of my woman is under my protection. That is law. That is honor.
I can already sense the agitation rolling off Julia in waves—protective, anxious, and worried on her friend’s behalf. Her emotions tug at me in a way I am still not accustomed to—a constant low hum beneath my skin. The longer she is with me, the more attuned to her I become.
Which is probably why I can feel her extra agitation, explained by the faintest metallic sweetness in the air.
Blood.
It’s not spilled yet, but it’s coming—her cycle approaches.
Human women are fragile at such times, emotionally and physically. I was taught this long ago, in another life, when I still believed humans were little more than cattle. Now the knowledge carries weight—responsibility.
I will have to take extra care with her. Keep her warm. Fed. Rested. Tended. Babied, if necessary.
She is my Queen so that’s how I’m going to treat her.
I hesitate for a moment, just looking at her. Julia has claimed her favored chair by the fire and Mr. Mittens is sprawled like a furry tyrant at her feet, licking himself with pointed indifference. Hanna stands near the hearth, shoulders hunched, clearly exhausted.
She looks smaller here, stripped of the glamour that made her strange and otherworldly moments before. Just a curvy human woman in rumpled scrubs, auburn curls escaping her hair-tie, green eyes shadowed with fear and disbelief.
When she turns to face me, I see it clearly—she’s terrified. And tired. And very, very human.
I soften my expression deliberately and incline my head—not as a Don, but as a host.
“You are safe here,” I tell her, keeping my voice low and even. “Nothing will harm you within the Crimson Spires.”
Her eyes flick to Julia, who immediately rises and moves to her side.
“It’s okay, Hanna,” she says firmly. “He’s not going to hurt you. I promise.”
The way Hanna relaxes—just a fraction—at Julia’s reassurance tightens something in my chest. Trust like that is rare…precious.
“Let us tend to your needs,” I say. “You have been taken far from your home without warning. That alone deserves redress.”
Hanna swallows nervously.
“I… I guess I am kind of hungry.”
Her yawn betrays her next—wide and unguarded. She slaps a hand over her mouth in embarrassment.
