“One meeting, Zymlor.”
“One scent is enough.”
“She is human.”
“Many true mates are inconvenient.”
“She is not an inconvenience,” I growl. He smirks at my ire.
“She works for me,” I continue. “All kinds of human and Layn boundaries would be crossed. You know that.”
“I know there are no boundaries between mates. Both of our laws respect the bond. You are the one trying to fight it, which is worse than breaking any rules.”
“She is a journalist who feels strongly that Athena Magazine should return to its investigative roots. Guess what she wants to investigate first?”
He shakes his head. “Please do not say it.”
“Yes. The mate you think is mine wants to investigate coffee farming.”
“I said, don’t say it,” he repeats, pulling his fingers through his hair. His ears stay fully cocked in my direction.
“Oh, it gets better. The Amazon. Brazil.”
“That is actually much worse.”
“She is brilliant.”
Zymlor says nothing.
Shit. I said too much.
His ears lift. Slowly. Cruelly. “Brilliant?”
“I meant dangerous.”
“Of course.”
“Professionally dangerous.”
“Naturally.”
“To Layn interests.”
“Is that what your cock thinks?”
“I’m ending the call.”
“Please do. I would hate to provide emotional support for your mate sickness crisis.”
A second signal breaks into the ring projection. Bryklor’s icon appears before either of us accepts it. My middle brother has never respected closed channels, locked doors, or polite society. His image blinks into the projection from a moving transport, jungle green and hard sunlight flashing behind him.
“Who has mate sickness?” Bryklor demands.
“No one,” I say.
“Sky,” Zymlor says.
Bryklor’s grin spreads. “Oh, this is excellent.”
