Spence sat up straighter, his grip on Emmy’s hand tightening instinctively.Them? Who?
Later. I’m in the middle of it, but I wanted to let you and Emmy know we can keep her safe now.
The connection closed abruptly, but Spence didn’t reopen it. Zander was clearly busy, and Spence appreciated the quick update.
“Zander says they found the perpetrators. Plural, apparently, which is probably why they couldn’t narrow any one person who had contact with everyone who was affected. No hints about who it was, just assurance the problem is being handled.”
Her eyes went wide, and then she blurted out, “The Versailles Carnival. It can still happen.”
Of all the things Spence expected her to say, that wasn’t it. He blinked. “That’s your first thought?”
“The season doesn’t have to end early. Everyone can stay safe, and I’m really looking forward to dressing up for it.” Her eyes were bright now, excited despite her exhaustion. “I’m going to be well enough for it, right? It’s still ten days away?”
Spence couldn’t help but smile. “If you aren’t, we’ll dress you up and put you on a throne or something, so you can still participate.”
“Let’s try some chicken broth,” Emmy said. “I need to build my strength up. Right?”
She managed five spoonfuls, and Spence stopped her, worried she’d overdo it and make herself puke again.
She was asleep again within minutes, but Spence stayed beside her, one hand on her hip, monitoring her fever and heartbeat while his mind turned over what Zander might do to whoever had hurt his people.
Would he pull Kendra in to do it, or would he do it himself?
The idiots had wanted to sow terror and chaos, but they’d given Zander a reason to make an example that would be remembered for centuries.
And Spence didn’t feel even a tiny bit sorry for them.
On screen, Buffy was trying to pretend she was normal by being a cheerleader, and itreallydidn’t work for her. Trying to be someone you aren’t isn’t productive, and Spence was grateful he’d stopped trying years ago. Being exactly who he is, a submissive masochist, had given him everything that mattered.
He looked at Emmy, sleeping fitfully, and realized how important it was to her for Zander to see her as the woman she’d become, not the child she’d been. And Zander … well, Zander needed to stop running from whatever was going through his head when it came to her.
Chapter 32
Emmy woke to familiar, masculine voices speaking too quietly for her fever-addled brain to parse. She kept her eyes closed, just listening to the cadence, the rise and fall. Safe sounds.
“She’s awake,” Zander said, and Emmy opened her eyes.
He sat in the chair beside the bed, still in the dark charcoal henley and black cargo pants he’d been wearing earlier, but there was something different about him now. A stillness. A satisfaction that hadn’t been there before.
“Hey,” Emmy managed, her voice scratchy.
Spence’s arm tightened around her — she was tucked against his chest, his body warm behind hers, one of his hands resting on her hip. The ice packs around her head were still held on with an ace bandage. She knew it looked ridiculous, but she was too tired to care.
“How are you feeling?” Zander asked.
Emmy took inventory — fever still burning through her, headache a persistent throb rather than the splitting agony of earlier, body acheseverywherebut manageable, and her stomach relatively settled for the moment.
“Like I got hit by a truck, and then it kept backing up and going forward, over and over again.” She breathed out and back in. “My digestive system is doing better, so that’s a start. Now if I can just get the fever, body aches, and headache to follow suit, but not having to run to the bathroom every twenty minutes means I’m getting some sleep, and that helps.”
“Your aura feels stronger. Spence tells me you managed six spoonfuls of chicken broth before you went to sleep this last time?”
“Yes, and I actually held them down. Maybe I’ll try for eight this time. Spence says you found the assholes who did this?”
She tried to sit up, but Spence’s arm held her tight against him. “He’ll tell us what he can. We don’t need to move.”
Zander leaned forward, elbows on his knees, those impossibly blue eyes focused entirely on her. “A married couple from the Slovenian Alps — Vladislav and Svetlana Krvi. They call themselves the Vladar Krvi — Masters of the Blood. The humans in the area call them the Lords of the Summit.”
“Oh,” Spence said. “Svetlana is a fucking scary bitch.”
