“Helped you?” Lucy and the Baroness said in unison. Lucy did not like how in sync the two of them had been in the last hour.
Rhea gestured toward the interior rooms. “Please, we should sit. This story requires tea. Possibly alcohol.”
“Definitely alcohol,” Basil groaned, causing Lucy’s jaw to drop yet again. Basil drinking was unheard of—she felt like she was watching sin unfold firsthand.
They moved through another door, etched with a key rune. Lucy held her breath as they passed through.
Inside, a cozy parlor awaited: cushions everywhere, fox-shaped carvings, and even porcelain teacups decorated with foxes. Lucy guessed Rhea really liked foxes.
Or foxes liked her. Lucy had noticed that décor often reflected more than taste.
Rhea poured tea and settled gracefully. “Basil and I were arranged to marry,” she began.
Lucy choked on air. Her thoughts jumped immediately to Esther. Funny how often “arranged" translates to “endured.”
“Yes, Lucy, it’s true,” Basil muttered before she could ask.
“You had a wife?” Lucy hissed. “A whole secret wife?”
“Former wife,” he corrected.
Rhea gave him a fond look. “He was a good husband. Just not the right one.”
“And whose idea was the... separation?” the Baroness asked.
Rhea smiled softly. “Basil’s. He knew I was in love with someone else and granted me a route to freedom.” Granted. Lucy chewed on the word. Freedom that needed permission always came with strings.
“With whom?” Lucy asked quietly.
Rhea’s eyes sparkled. “With someone I wasn’t supposed to.”
As if on cue, footsteps padded from the hallway, nails clicking on the floor. Lucy turned, expecting a pet fox.
A tall man with pale skin and silver hair entered. Fox ears flicked atop his head while his pale eyes studied them with quiet caution. He was elegant, dangerous, and handsome enough to make Lucy rethink every life choice she’d ever made. Dangerous didn’t always mean cruel. Lucy respected the distinction.
“That,” Rhea said with pride, “is Asher.”
Asher bowed slightly, voice smooth as velvet. “Welcome.”
Lucy tried to bow back and nearly knocked over the tea tray.
Behind him was a more petite figure: a younger beast-kin with silver hair curling at the ends, warm brown skin, and a tail flicking lazily behind him. He wasn’t much taller than Lucy herself, which she noted with quiet scheming: if she ever had to intimidate him, she could manage.
His gaze lingered a fraction too long—then snapped away like he’d caught himself touching something hot. Lucy felt it anyway. Not attraction. Awareness.
“Is this the group?” the boy asked, voice like warm honey. “The trouble hunters?”
Lucy bristled. “We are not trouble hunters.”
He smirked. “You smell like trouble.”
“I smell like lavender,” she snapped.
“Sure,” he said, unconvinced and grinning.
Rhea beamed. “Lucy, Basil, Irene—this is my son. Sylva.”
Sylva flicked his ear. “And you’re the ones dragging me into a goose chase.”
