“Dimitri crossed a line,” Whichello said, keeping his voice low and even. “I dealt with it.”
“By sentencing him to death?” Something flickered in Azariah’s eyes that might have been amusement or calculation. “You realize half the demons in this castle served under him at some point. His execution might inspire unfortunate questions about your priorities.”
There it was. The real reason Azariah had sought him out in this particular hallway at this particular time. Not concern for Isaac’s safety or Whichello’s judgment but the political ramifications of killing a high-ranking enforcer.
“Let them ask.” Whichello’s fingers twitched with the urge to frost every surface in the corridor. “Anyone who thinks assault is acceptable can join him in the dungeon.”
“Protective.” Azariah tilted his head like he was examining something curious under glass. “Over a little red panda you barely know. That’s quite the investment for someone you supposedly purchased on a whim.”
The wordinvestmentcrawled under Whichello’s skin and set up residence. His brother knew exactly what he was doing, poking at the tender parts to see what bled.
Whichello would not give him the satisfaction. He might’ve purchased Isaac to settle Gilbert’s debt, but Whichello had also paid twice the amount owed for the panda. It wasn’t on a whim, either. After experiencing so much betrayal, Whichello had just wanted someone he could trust, someone who wanted nothing in return.
Sounded pathetic as hell. Whichello paid sixty grand for what? A companion? Someone he could simply chill with and not worry about a knife sliding into his back?
“Are we done here?” He kept his tone flat, bored even, though his blood felt close to freezing in his veins. “I have other matters to attend to.”
Azariah’s smile widened a fraction, like Whichello’s non-reaction was a reaction in itself. Probably was. His brother could read silence better than most demons read ancient texts.
“Just trying to help you see the bigger picture, brother. Dimitri has allies. Killing him sends a message, certainly, but messages can be interpreted in so many different ways.”
Footsteps echoed down the corridor, heavy and firm. Marcus appeared around the corner, his gaze moving between Whichello and Azariah with the kind of assessment that came from years of reading dangerous situations. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly when he took in their positions, the space between them that probably looked too small and dangerously charged.
Marcus stopped a respectful distance away, but his posture shifted into something more alert. Ready.
“Am I interrupting?” The question was civil, but his eyes remained locked on Azariah. The two had never gotten along. Marcus refused to play Azariah’s games, despised them in fact. Whichello had lost count on how many times he’d had to leash Marcus before his enforcer ripped Azariah to shreds.
“Not at all.” Azariah’s expression smoothed into something pleasant and empty. “I was just leaving.”
He turned with unhurried grace, each step even and casual, like he had all the time in the world and nothing more important to do than wander castle corridors dispensing unwanted advice. His footfalls faded down the hallway, and neither Whichello nor Marcus moved until the sound disappeared entirely. Whichello would never understand how he was related to Azariah. His brother would give their mother to a sadist just to watch her suffer. Whichello would at least demand a price.
“Is he a threat I need to watch for?” Marcus asked quietly, jutting a chin toward Isaac’s room.
“Always.” Whichello watched the empty corridor where his brother had vanished. “Never let your guard down around him. He’s always three moves ahead in a game only he knows he’s playing.”
Though calling Azariah a threat was like calling the Mad Hatter a little twitchy. His brother wouldn’t move against him directly, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t maneuver pieces on the board until the whole game tilted on the edge of a cliff.
Marcus snorted but kept his comment to himself. That’s what Whichello liked about him. The demon understood the nuances of treachery without needing it spelled out.
“Have you spoken to Isaac?” Despite Whichello just leaving the panda, Isaac had only given grunted replies, refusing to engage in a two-way conversation. He wasn’t going to push the shifter. Not if Isaac wasn’t ready to talk to him.
“Yeah. He’s shaken but holding together. Ate some of the dinner I brought him.” Marcus paused. “He asked if you were really going to kill Dimitri.”
“What did you tell him?”
“The truth. That Dimitri was already dead, just needed his body to drop.”
That was…actually not bad. Probably more tactful than what Whichello would’ve said. Maybe it was best Isaac hadn’t asked him instead. The panda was a part of the nonhuman world where laws worked differently. No trials. No negotiation. No chance for Dimitri to plead his case. The moment he’d touched Isaac, his fate had sealed itself.
Still, Azariah’s warning still lingered inside Whichello’s head. Dimitri did have allies, demons who might take exception to their commander being executed over what they’d see as a minor transgression. The castle’s atmosphere had been shifting for some years now, stirring with a restlessness that predated Isaac’s arrival. Whichello felt the impending change like a current on the air that hummed with warning. The need to protect Isaac was almost overpowering.
Returning to the human realm was too dangerous. Whichello’s enemies would seize any opportunity to weaponize Isaac against him or, worse, eliminate the shifter entirely. The thought of those amethyst eyes dulling with pain made Whichello’s chest tighten unbearably.
The panda hadn’t evaded detection for sixteen months. Whichello had known his location the entire time. But he’d chosen to give Isaac his freedom, only shadowing his movements to ensure his continued safety. For a year and a half Whichello had checked on him a few times a week. Nothing more than concern for his investment.
The notion that he could watch over Isaac without becoming entangled in his life now struck Whichello as the height of arrogance. Slowly, he’d begun to memorize how Isaac would perch on his fire escape, a blunt between his fingers, exhaling smoke in perfect rings that dissolved against the night sky. Whichello noticed the way moonlight caught in Isaac’s dark hair. Some evenings Isaac would stare at nothing, his eyes reflecting a quiet desolation Whichello recognized in himself.
In his centuries of existence, Whichello had never felt this inexplicable pull toward another’s suffering. This bone-deep connection with another living being. Only Isaac.
