“Only when they’re not deserved. I like to earn my own privileges.”
Fucking hell. She’s the sort of woman who would walk out on us if she learned she’s a candidate and her posting was created for her. “I can talk it over with the others. But dinner is waiting now.” I motion back to the hall.
She pauses, and her eyes flick from her bag to me, then to the hall. She steps forward but stops. “There are twenty-two other names on doors on this floor and four unlabeled rooms. How many people are on staff here?”
“Oh, that’s more of a Leopold question.”
“And what do you do at the castle?”
“I work outside of the castle. Not as a gardener. Not that there’s anything wrong with being a gardener.”
“I don’t know many gardeners who wear thousand-dollar suits, Mr. Slate.”
“It’s Evander,” I say. Because sheisa candidate. A candidatewhom the Crest Wing ancestral thought enough of to put in our mate’s room.
“Evander...” It’s like a warm caress to my chest. Maybe Leopold knows something after all. “We should be getting to dinner. Where I would love to hear all about what you do for a living. But first, I’d like to change into my own clothes.”
I open my mouth to tell her no, that her ass looks fucking fantastic in the power suit trousers. My palms are itchy. No, we don’t sleep with all the candidates, but one thing is for sure: I’m done. Miss Fischer is our last candidate when we send her on her way. I’m telling Leopold to tell the witch the elders are working with to sod off; I’m done. Maybe it’s that decision that’s made me so keen to let my eyes settle on Miss Fischer’s assets. I clear my throat.
“Unless we’re out of time? I wouldn’t want to make the other staff wait.”
“Ah, well, then we’re in luck. You’re invited to dinner with Kieren and myself.” No need to throw Roark into the mix when the likelihood of him showing up is next to nothing. “I’m sure he’s downstairs.”
“Kieren?”
“Kieren Alder, owner of Cloud Rift. Have you seen any of the papers?”
“Oh, I thought this was a staff dinner, not...”
I wait for her to continue. It’s a nasty trait I have—give people enough rope to hang themselves. And they do. Usually. But not her.
“Not a staff dinner,” she says. “Well, if wearing this is okay, we should go. I don’t want to keep the lord of the castle waiting.”
“Prince,” I say.
“Prince,” she repeats. “Of Switzerland?” I cock my head at her. “Where is this NDA?”
“After dinner.” I lead her out of the room, and my hand settles on the small of her back. My fingers are separated from her flesh by at least two layers of fabric, but still her heat reaches my hand. A rush pulses through me. It’s a flash. My dragon roars in my ears.
She moves into the hall. There’s an eagerness in her steps that takes her past the window she wanted to gaze out of a few minutes ago and down the stairs. Her feet bounce on the treads, and I trail after her. She must have felt something too.
She glances back at me, and momentarily, her pace picks up even more. Her hand slides down the banister on the landing, then her shoulders rise and she stops. “Are you okay?” There’s a tremor in her voice. A fear that would normally heat my fire. Not today, though. Today it makes me cold.
“Of course. Hungry, you know. Don’t you get hangry, Miss Fischer?”
“I suppose, but when I do, my eyes don’t change.” She continues down the stairs.
I smirk and give her a shrug. She’s holding on to the banister, but her eyes are on me behind her. “Watch where you’re going, Miss Fischer. I’d hate for your first night in the Alps to be spent in the hospital.”
She laughs. “I don’t break; I bounce. I’m flexible that way.”
Damn. I know what she means, but my dragon has other thoughts pushing at me. And I can picture all too well what my eyes must look like now.
Just a taste.
She’s not prey, food, or mate.
He chuckles. You know you want a taste.
