“It’s the truth,” Rowan said.
“Then, please, by all means. You say it isn’t how it looks? Tell me.” Linden pulled out his phone and flipped the screen to face them.
The photo on Linden’s phone was a post on a gossip channel. Briar knew instantly where and when the picture had been taken. In it, he sat in a booth, leaning against Rowan’s shoulder. He and Rowan gazed at each other like there was no one else in the room. The fall of Rowan’s lashes, the brightness in Briar’s eyes, they looked like a painting. It could have been a photo taken before a kiss or after. There’d been no kiss, but the look was intimate enough to be one.
Briar’s heart clenched. “We were just having a drink—”
A blaze of hot pain sent him reeling.
The sound of Linden’s backhand rang loud in the room. Briar caught himself against the sideboard, gripping it hard, more pain lancing up his elbow where it impacted. Blood speckled the wall. Distantly, he recalled that Linden wore a ring, and thought it might have cut him. Even more distantly, movement to his left.
Rowan grabbed Linden by the front of his shirt and slammed him against the door.
It didn’t even shudder or reverberate on impact. Rowan was immovable, furious. Atticus sprang back and swatted at Rowan’s ankles, hissing. Linden’s eyes snapped open, wind forced from his lungs, his lips frozen on a rebuttal that wouldn’t come. Genuine fear replaced the look of affront. Briar overcame his dizziness to move and put a placating hand against Rowan’s ribs. Linden had magic. Linden could take vengeance. Combative magic was uncommon because most of it requiredlivingtithes, but that didn’t mean the situation couldn’t spiral.
The fact that Linden had struck him still hadn’t sunk in.
Briar stood halfway between them. In that moment, he understood why the townsfolk were so afraid of Rowan. Under his hand, Rowan’s huge chest swelled with each labored breath. It was grievously clear what a flimsy barrier Briar’s arm made—if Rowan wanted to hurt Linden, there was no magic Briar knew that would be powerful enough to stop him.
And yet. Rowan’s gaze did not falter from Linden’s face. The rage written in every line of his brow did not unwinch. He lowered Linden until his feet touched the ground but didn’t let go of his shirt.
“If you lay hands on him again,” Rowan said.
He didn’t finish the threat. Linden hardly reacted, but his returning glare was calculated. Rowan stepped back, yielding to Briar’s hand like a draft horse bending its head to the yoke. For a brief second, the handthat had just pinned Linden to the door lifted to Briar’s cheek but did not touch. Briar felt the tickle of blood there.
He pushed Rowan’s hand away. “You should leave,” he said.
Rowan wouldn’t listen. “He hurt you.”
Softly, Briar said, “I hurt him.”
It was clear from the look on Rowan’s face that he did not think the hurts equal.
“I need to speak to him alone,” Briar said.
After a second that felt much longer, Rowan broke his gaze and turned to go. He paused in the doorway where Linden stood, disheveled and seething. Rowan’s size forced Linden to press against the wall, and Rowan used that to his advantage, looking down with open menace. Then he descended the stairs. The shop bell jingled after his departure.
Linden unfroze. Briar fought to think what he should say. An apology seemed insignificant. At the same time, the weakness in his limbs returned, his head pounded, and he had to hold on to the sideboard to keep from crumpling.
“I think it’s clear you should not see that brute any longer,” Linden said.
Briar had expected an outburst of jealousy, of hurt, demands for an explanation. Linden’s voice was cold.
His legs gave out. Ridiculously, he thought,No, I need to stand, I can’t make this about me.
His body didn’t care for the delicacies of his situation. His knees hit the floor.
Linden watched before grabbing him under the arms. He pulled him up. He took bone powder from his pocket and created a portal into his own bedroom. For some reason, this flagrant display of magic struck Briar harder than any other. A portal just to go next door.
Vatii swooped into the room, hovering nearby. Linden eased Briar onto a settee amongst the silken velvet and incense of his flat. He paced to a tower of shelves and pinched pink sand out of a jar. Sprinkling this along the front of his phone screen, the crack in it glowed and sealed. The phone must have gone flying, but Briar had been reeling too hard to notice.
Linden took a seat in an armchair, Atticus lying along the back of it, licking a paw and glowering. He set his phone on the coffee table between them, still on that photo from the pub.
“Are you even going to explain this humiliating indiscretion, or should I enumerate all the ways this has undermined our success tonight?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Did you even speak to Finola Cadwallader, or did you head straight into his arms the moment I left?”
