“That wasn’t my decision since I wasn’t here at the time, but I understand their order was a death sentence for you if you returned. I’m absolutely willing to adhere to my predecessor’s judgment.”
Patrick tilted his head to the side, falling into that focused frame of mind as he readied himself for a fight. Werecreatures shifted in their seats, tension thrumming through the group, but Sage cut everyone off at the metaphorical knees before anyone could start flipping tables.
“Then we’ll settle this disagreement in the challenge ring. You’ll grant us pass-through rights and pardon Jono when we win,” Sage said evenly.
“Whenyou lose, we take your lives, is that it, love?” Finley sneered.
Sage stared him down, refusing to show throat. “You’re welcome to try.”
A tall, lanky black man stretched out his legs and leaned an elbow on the table. “Won’t need to try very hard for that.”
Sage casually turned around, putting her back to the group in a show of disdain that wasn’t taken well by any of the London god pack. Patrick kept his eyes on everyone he considered the enemy while Jono and Sage handled pack politics.
“Dire to dire?” Sage asked Jono.
Patrick would’ve rather it be alpha to alpha—with him fighting, not Jono. Sage was their expert on pack law though, and this was the confrontation she’d thought would be the best chance to get what they needed—freedom to move about London without being hassled or attacked.
Jono nodded. “Dire to dire.”
“As you will it.”
The words sounded way too formal to be anything but tradition handed down through the years. More shifting of bodies on chairs had Patrick moving his right hand closer to his dagger. Cressida’s gaze followed the motion of his hand, and he watched her eyes narrow fractionally. Her expression didn’t change, neither did the way she held herself, but when she looked at Patrick again, the mockery from before was gone.
“Our challenge ring is outside London. You’ll meet us there in an hour and a half,” Cressida said.
“Bryson will escort you to our territory,” Finley said.
“He rides in his own car,” Patrick said.
“That’s not how things are done here in London. You get an escort. This isn’t your city.”
“And he’s riding in his own fucking car. If he tries to ride with us, I’ll leave a body behind.”
Someone laughed, and Finley grinned like he thought Patrick was amusing. Which was fine by Patrick. He didn’t care if the London god pack underestimated him—their arrogance only meant they’d never see him coming when it truly mattered.
He preferred those odds over the ones where all his secrets were laid bare.
Jono brushed the back of his hand against Patrick’s arm in a subtle show of support. Patrick scraped his fingernails against the leather sheath of his dagger and tried not to think about the trouble he’d be in if he committed murder on foreign soil.
“We’ll see you in Farningham,” Jono said.
Sage headed for the exit, and Wade hurried after her. Patrick didn’t take his eyes off the table of werecreatures, not even when Bryson stood. “I’ll escort you lot.”
“Patrick?” Jono said.
“Go. I’ve got your six,” Patrick said.
He wanted himself and his magic between everyone at the table and his pack. For once, Jono didn’t argue. Bryson smirked as he moved to follow Jono, but Patrick put himself right in the other man’s way.
Patrick glared at him. “Back the fuck off.”
“And what are you going to do if I don’t?” Bryson asked, reaching for him.
Warmth pressed against Patrick’s back, the familiar scent of Jono’s cologne washing over him as Jono reached around him to grab Bryson’s wrist.
“He’d kill you,” Jono said in a low, dangerous voice from behind Patrick. “And I’ll be the one listening to him whinge about the loads of paperwork he’ll have to fill out to justify your murder. So don’t fucking touch him, or I’ll go for your throat myself.”
“I’ll bitch about paperwork if I want to,” Patrick muttered.
