by Leigh Evans
“You video-conference?” I gasped. Son of a bitch. I hadn’t seen that coming. There were four open windows. Inside each, respectively, from left to right: a vain blond stud, an effete tulip of fashion, a thickset brute with a bowl of nuts, and a guy with a face like a hatchet.
“But of course, Miss Peacock,” replied St. Silas, with heavy sarcasm. “The Great Council forever stays abreast of technology.”
“That is not her name.” The Russian chose a pistachio from the bowl balanced on his thighs. “She is the get of Benjamin Stronghold.” His lip jutted as he concentrated on splitting open a shell with his thick nail. “I remember him. Good man. Strong. Could have been a second to the Alpha of Creemore one day.” He inspected the green meat, gave a small grunt, then popped it into his mouth. Small eyes studied me as he chewed. “Then he met the Fae woman. And he became not so strong, not so good.” The Russian studied me for another brooding second, then said heavily, “And she is the result.” He tossed the husks onto the discard pile. “Make her leave.”
“I have a video!” Except, where was the iPad? I must have dropped it preleap. “Also, a spreadsheet…” My gaze darted, sweeping the floor, until I spotted the carrier bag. The edge of the tablet peeked out of the neck of it, still swaddled in wool.
“This is exactly why we don’t let mates attend trials. Too many countercharges. Too much emotion,” said the studly wolf reclining on a king-sized bed (bare chest gleaming, brocade pillows propped behind his head). His speech had a Nordic intonation, very faint. “Slows things down. In the end it always comes down to the Alpha.”
Oh, spare me.
“Who isn’t fit to stand trial,” I pointed out. “Much less defend himself or me. Look, I can clear this up in a second.” Trowbridge started to list to the left. I gave his jeans another surreptitious upward tug. “Just pass me the tablet.”
“This is the Great Council,” said Whitlock. “They deal with Alphas here, not their consorts.”
“Shut up, Whitlock,” muttered Trowbridge.
A flicker—a spit of delft blue—gleamed in St. Silas’s eyes. “A valid point, Reeve.” He studied me for a moment, then turned to my mate. “Bridge, this is not a family court, you comprehend? This is a session of the Supreme Alphas, and serious charges have been laid against you, which you must answer to. Normally, she would be sent from the room. To wait, like any other, to discover the fate of her consort. But as your mate has pointed out, you are drugged and not entirely coherent.” He moved to the tea cart where he righted a cup onto a saucer. “My esteemed colleagues are very busy men.” Thoughtfully, he lifted the teapot. “Are you able to answer our questions?”
Trowbridge’s jaw worked then he said slowly, “Whitlock drugged me.”
“Again,” yawned the guy in the bed. “This could stretch out forever. Can’t we cut through this? What do you say, Gregori?”
The Russian placed the bowl on the table beside his seat. He scrubbed his head. “I have a business to run. If she will not leave the room peacefully, let her stand for her mate.”
“That’s entirely against protocol!” piped up the effete guy.
St. Silas poured a cup. “No, Charles. It is unusual but not completely against ‘protocol.’” The tone he used for the last word spoke volumes about his feelings on that subject. “Bridge, consider what I put in front of you most carefully. If she speaks for you, then you may not. Not a single word, you comprehend? By giving your assent, you waive your right to speech inside these rooms.” He added four sugars to his cup. “One would need to trust his mate very deeply to let her stand for you.”
Trowbridge leaned back his head to stare through half-slit eyes at the Quebec wolf.
Don’t look at him. Look at me.
What was he thinking? Was he even capable of logical thought? Or was he drifting along, encased in the happy bubble sensation that comes with multiple hits of sun potion?
Trust me.
St. Silas took a sip, then asked indifferently, “So, Robson Trowbridge, Alpha of the Ontario wolves, leader of the Creemore pack, what is your wish? Shall it be your mate who answers the charges or you?”
Choose me, Trowbridge. Let me speak for you. I’m a half-blooded Fae. My lies are not broadcast in my scent. Trust me, Trowbridge.
“You up to it, mate?” he asked, his gaze still resting on St. Silas.
I wanted to close my eyes in relief. Asking me if I was up to lying was like asking a washed-out former kid star if he was up to taking a line of coke. Or course I was. Spinning tall tales was one skill I’d taken the time to study and practice. “Yes.”
He leaned back in his chair and let his head rest against the seat’s pillowed back. “Works for me.”
Whitlock started, and sought to cover his sudden agitation by pouring another inch of whiskey into his tumbler.
“Very well,” said St. Silas in a brisk tone. “The formal inquiry is now open. Be it known that Robson Trowbridge has accepted the substitution of his mate. Her words will be his words. Her truths and lies, his. She will stand for him.”
And this time I’ll do it right.
St. Silas smiled. “Miss Peacock, many charges have been laid. In the interest of economy of time, let us move directly to the essential issue, which is—
“Her allegiance,” growled the Russian. “Is she Fae or is she wolf?”
“That is not of immediate concern.” St. Silas put down his cup. Crossed his arms. “The question is, has she or her mate engaged in trade with the Fae?”
“No,” I said flatly. There, subject done.
“Never?”
“Never,” I replied.
“Of any kind, whatsoever?”
“Nope.” This was going to be easier than I’d thought.
“Test her scent,” said the Spaniard tightly. “See if she lies.”
I couldn’t help it. The corner of my lip lifted ever so lightly.
Whiskey slopped when Whitlock slammed his glass on the table. “She’s half Fae,” he said in disgust. “She doesn’t carry a scent and St. Silas knew it when he asked her to stand for Trowbridge.”
“Not true,” murmured St. Silas.
Whitlock’s knee bobbed, telegraphing his building irritation. “That bit about Trowbridge being too soused to answer—what a crock of shit. St. Silas has effectively taken his ability to scent lies off the table.”
The Frenchman inclined his head. “How could I possibly know she doesn’t have a scent? I’ve never met her before.”
Fumes of frustration rose from Whitlock. “But you’ve met other Faes. You know they’re scentless.”
“Never a half-blooded one.” St. Silas’s tone turned hard. “I based my knowledge on what I knew of halflings. And they carry the scent of their wolf from father to child.” He glanced at the plastic carrier bag. “I, for one, wish to see this video now.”
Trowbridge swayed as Mathieu unwrapped the tablet and passed it to his boss.
St. Silas turned it over in his hands, then pressed the button on the side.
He stared at the screen.
Then he pressed the on button another time. “It doesn’t work,” he said, lifting his gaze from the pad.
Karma fucking hates me.
* * *
St. Silas’s pronouncement provoked a babble of voices, speaking over each other. They spoke so fast, and broke over each other so ruthlessly that I couldn’t track who was talking. I could only listen, my gaze riveted to St. Silas’s, my hopes draining as they argued. Team Trowbridge was losing.
“Maybe the battery’s dead,” I said to St. Silas.
“You dropped it, ma chère.”
The Spaniard observed, “This is exactly why we don’t have mates testify on behalf of their men.”
No, no. I gave it a shake. “There’s a spreadsheet on it. A really—”
“Shall we vote?” said the Russian.
“It’s their client list!” I shouted. Well, I’d meant it to come out as a shout, but I was anxious, and pissed. And I’m female. It
came off as an earsplitting shriek, that clearly hurt at least one listener’s ears because someone whined in protest.
Were hearing.
While I had their attention, I went straight into the good stuff. “Their clients were culled from the NAW’s kill list. All the information is there, including payment history and credit card details. Neither Trowbridge nor I have access to the NAW’s kill list,” I said, mentally thinking, Ta-dah! “Only Knox and Whitlock would.”
Whitlock picked up his glass. “You’ve got your facts wrong there. I’ve never accessed the kill list either.”
Crap.
“Check the user logs,” he said with a hard smile. “I’ve never logged in to the database. Not once.” He wrinkled his nose to emphasize his overall distaste. “Not much of a fan of halflings. Let them die, that’s what I say.”
St. Silas considered Whitlock, then the tablet. “Perhaps our flares drained it. All the electricity…”
“That could be it,” I said, working to infuse some confidence in my tone.
“Louis, have you a charger?” asked St. Silas. “It would be good to see the video.”
“She’s just jerking your chain. Wasting time.” Whitlock crossed his leg and balanced his glass on his calf. “Gentlemen, everything she’s said so far has just reinforced what I told you before.” He jerked his chin in my direction. “Knox saw an opportunity when he met this one. The last of the Fae. Young and impressionable. Hungry for attention. But she couldn’t open the portal with her amulet so he teamed her up with Trowbridge. She needed Bridge’s amulet to reopen the portals.”
Ralph took exception to that. He glowed, white hot.
Whitlock shook his head. “We’ve all heard what she did to get it. Killing the old Alpha of Creemore. Sacrificing her aunt. Mating with Trowbridge. That’s all common knowledge. And she’s never denied that she pushed him into the gate.” He lifted the glass and swirled the ice. “My mate’s healing in Merenwyn,” he mimicked. “Yeah, right. Trowbridge needed a cover while he spent time with the Fae.”
I let go of my mate’s jeans. I stepped in front of him, Merry shining on my chest. “Trowbridge forbade me to send him to Merenwyn. I waited until he was unconscious and sent him there against his wishes. He never traded with the Fae. He never wanted to go to their realm.”
“Blah, blah, blah,” said Whitlock. “If that was true, he’d have been back in a couple of hours. Instead, he spent six months, living the good life, making trade agreements with his new buddies—”
“He was held captive by the Fae,” I shouted. “He loathes them!”
Silence, of the particularly piercing kind, followed that announcement.
The Spaniard’s pitch was soft. “Then why did he mate with you?”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Because I tricked him—that was the real answer. Because I didn’t give him a chance to figure out who he was saying the words to—that was another truth. Because I’d have done anything to have kept him living.
Anything.
I’d stolen him from death’s claws. Because I’d wanted his life woven into mine. His love wrapped around me. That’s what I’d hungered for. Though that night, I hadn’t allowed myself to dwell on what he’d wanted.
Since then, I couldn’t seem to stop thinking about how all the things he’d wanted—a pack, recognition, his own lands—they’d all been dangled in front of him, then jerked away. You want this? You can’t have it.
Death. Fate. Karma. One or all of those entities hadn’t forgotten my theft. They kept coming at us. From the back, from the front, from the side. Has it been worth it, Trowbridge? I know you love me. I’ve felt it in your touch. But have I been worth it? I kept my gaze fixed on Whitlock as whatever warmth I’d had drained out of me. Thus, I sensed, rather than saw, Trowbridge turn his head to stare at me.
Don’t look into his eyes. You may not want to read the answer waiting there.
His scent spiced. But I still wouldn’t look at him.
So my mate spoke to me and to them, the only way he could.
Through touch.
Robson Trowbridge stepped closer, sliding an arm around my waist, drawing me back so that my hip rested against the juncture of his thighs. My body was stiff, telegraphing the insecurities that never left me. With a soft tut, he nudged the back of my knee with his. I fell against him, my head finding that place I’d started thinking of as another “mine”—that hard and welcome spot above the rise of his pectorals but below his collarbone.
Up came his other arm, to circle my shoulders, and to sweep aside the neck of my shirt. It laid bare to their gaze the base of my neck where there should been a permanent mark of the mate bond.
There was no silver half-moon scar.
Just my Fae skin. Smooth and pale.
Outwardly? I think I turned to stone. While inside? Mortal-me flinched, and railed, and cried too. For in that instant, My One True Thing had laid me more naked to the wolves than if he’d stripped the shirt off my back and slipped the jeans off my hips.
My Were stiffened inside me.
How could you? Before them?
The muscled arm around my waist tightened in reproof. Then Trowbridge slowly bent his head—warm breath on skin turned suddenly cold—and lowered his mouth to the sacred place, the hollow where mates leave marks and scars are formed. A swipe of his tongue sent a shiver along my spine.
Over the place he’d once toothed, he bit down. Not hard enough to break my flesh, but with enough pressure to make me take in a quick breath. A moment—he surely held his teeth in that gentle nip for no longer than one perfect moment.
Sometimes moments are all you need.
Heart of my heart. Mate for all my years. I offer you my life.
He turned the pantomime of mate-bite into the softest kiss. A gentle one, a visual demonstration to even the thickest, blindest, most doubting wolf that I was loved. I was precious. I was wanted.
I was his.
Tears blurred my eyes when Trowbridge lifted his chin. His jaw grazed mine—skin warming with the soft scrape of his stubble—then it found its customary place at my brow. He draped his heavy arm over the front of me, covering up the skin that belonged to both him and me.
Together then. We’ll face it together.
My mate’s final summation on the mate-bond topic was directed to Whitlock and executed with typical Trowbridge efficiency. Just one quick upward jerk of his jaw—a “see that?” and “screw you” all rolled into one.
No one can deliver a challenge as insolently as my Trowbridge.
I damn near cried when his callused palm flattened to rest protectively (and yes, perhaps possessively too) over the place he’d laid his mark.
I am loved.
And I am tired. Of some wolves and some men. Of doubts and fears. Of yo-yo destinies and taunting futures.
“Let me cut to the chase,” I said. “I can give you the Safe Passage and the Gatekeeper.” Amazing how a big honking dollop of self-confidence can clear your mind. Suddenly, I wasn’t the game novice, stunned into silence by the complexity of the chess board. I was the Chess Master.
“The Gatekeeper will answer,” I said. “We have never met and I will be a stranger to her.” My lover’s arm was a solid band of steel as I pointed to liar-liar-pants-on-fire. “But she’s met Whitlock. She’s eaten pie with him. Let St. Silas read her face when she sees him. Let your truth sensor ask the Gatekeeper who she traded with. Trowbridge or Whitlock?”
Whitlock’s flare was the car behind you on the highway. The one driven by the guy who used his high beams without prejudice.
It blinded me. So, I didn’t have a chance to see him charge, blade drawn. If I had? I might have flinched or stiffened up. Any of those reactions would have made it harder for Trowbridge to toss me aside in time to face Whitlock’s knife.
Lucky me. I didn’t have time to react.
Whitlock went into a crouch, then he slashed at Trowbridge. A foolish move. A long swipe when he should have ja
bbed, rabbit-punch fast.
But he used the knife like a man accustomed to guns.
He’d never lived in a world where weapons were the rock by your hand and the sand by your feet. I’d imagine the only time he’d ever really fought was in his wolf form. Perhaps that’s why he wasted so much time circling Trowbridge.
My guy didn’t circle.
He didn’t even turn his body. He just looked over his shoulder.
Whitlock lunged. My mate feinted to the right, then flowed right back toward Whitlock. So smoothly, so fluidly was his reaction. And then, with a thud, and smack, Whitlock was down, his neck pinned under Trowbridge’s knee.
Kill him. Slowly.
St. Silas rapped out a string of French. Mathieu and Louis rushed in. Mathieu to press his gun under Trowbridge’s jaw, Louis to position his above Whitlock’s ear.
“You cannot kill him.” St. Silas.
“Watch me,” replied Trowbridge, indifferent to the gag rule.
“No, my friend.”
“He’s guilty! You can see he’s guilty!” shouted Trowbridge.
“Yes, I can see and smell his guilt,” murmured the Quebec Alpha. “But we have—”
Trowbridge snarled. “Don’t you tell me you have some fucking protocol.”
“Bridge. Your mate has stood for you. She must stand for you now.” St. Silas exhaled, a man brought to a place he didn’t want to be. “Miss Peacock, it is you who must mete out the final punishment. Your mate must stand back and allow you to finish this.”
Yes.
“Tink?”
“I need to do this,” I said, gazing at Whitlock.
“Stand down, Bridge,” murmured St. Silas.
He did, reluctance and hurt for me written on his expression.
Louis snagged a chair, and positioned it onto the plastic. Whitlock was forced into it. Mathieu helped hold the leader of the NAW in place, while zip ties were used to secure his hands to the armrests. Whitlock began to protest but his cry was smothered by a hand over his mouth, and then that temporary gag was replaced by a length of duct tape.
Plastic crackled as St. Silas took up a position behind the chair. He placed an arm around Whitlock’s throat, and positioned his hand so that it was over his head.