by Lyra Evans
But you are pretending to be, so fucking act like it.
“Connor, love,” Eevie said in an undertone, “be realistic, won’t you? Whoever this little ape is, he’s hardly consort material. And, if I recall correctly, you made it quite clear you weren’t just looking for a consort, but a mate, and—”
“Eevie,” Connor said, his tone suddenly colder, sharp and cutting. He grasped her hand, removing it from his chest, and stepped away from her. “If you dare call Oliver an ape again, I will have you banished from all Pierce grounds. Do you understand?”
Eevie’s mouth was open, gaping almost stupidly at Connor, her hand hanging in midair between them. She looked visibly alarmed by Connor’s promise. After a beat, she shut her mouth and took back her hand, as though it had suddenly been burned. Her expression changed dramatically, her gaze pointed downward at him, more humble.
“Of course, Alpha,” she said more quietly. “My apologies. I meant no offense.”
Connor stared for a long moment, and Oliver had the sense that this was for the benefit of the entire club. All eyes were on them again. Oliver stood up taller, much less relaxed than he had been. He squared his shoulders, his eyes still on Connor.
“What do you think, Oli?” Connor asked after a long moment, and the mood of the club shifted. As though the air was brittle, crystalizing with the tension, Oliver realized this wasn’t a small question. Asking Oli for input on matters of pack politics was shocking. Oliver swallowed, studying Eevie. Her chest heaved slowly, shallowly, as though fighting off panic. A part of him wanted to punish her; it was a reckless, burning anger within him, like the click of a gun as it’s fired. But the greater part of Oliver, the part that remembered he was a cop and just playing at consort, reminded him he needed these Wolves to cooperate with him. They needed to like him. “Shall I forgive her?”
Oliver looked back at Connor now, and Connor’s expression visibly softened when their gazes met. “We knew it would be a surprise,” Oliver said, then he looked back at Eevie. “An honest mistake,” he said finally, and the brittle atmosphere eased. “Could happen to the best of us.”
Connor considered Oliver, then turned back to Eevie. “Turns out my consort is more generous than the first daughter of pack kin.” Connor shook his head. “You are forgiven. But I hope you don’t forget what an ape gave you today.”
Eevie finally looked up again, meeting Connor’s eyes. She nodded shortly, then disappeared somewhere. When she did, more Wolves turned away, going back to their business. Apparently they’d passed another test, and Oliver began to relax slightly. His nerves were raw. He needed to move.
“Connor,” Oliver said, his voice huskier than he realized. Connor looked at him immediately, fully consumed by Oliver in one word. For a moment he felt more powerful than all the Wolves at Hunt. “I was promised dancing,” he said, and Connor nodded, taking his hand.
Connor led Oliver out to the centre of the dance floor. The music had long-since stopped when they came in, but with a wave of his hand, Connor signaled the DJ to restart it. The moment the music began—a slow, sensual melody Oliver had never heard—Connor drew him in and pressed their bodies together. Oliver’s back to Connor’s chest, he swayed with the song, letting the beat into him. Connor’s body radiated heat into Oliver, making him pant, desperate for breath. But with every intake, he just breathed more Connor, and soon his head was floating with it. The booze was useless, but apparently Oliver didn’t need it.
Connor’s hands on his hips, Oliver laced their fingers together a moment, then spun around in Connor’s grasp, arching his back to press his stomach to Connor’s. Hips grinding together, Connor’s lips parted, his eyes firmly trained on Oliver, as though no one else in the world existed. Oliver held the look, tilting his head back to bring himself closer to Connor, to fit himself into the crook of his body. They moved this way, breathing each other in, lips barely inches apart, and Oliver lost track of the song.
They revolved on the dance floor, and Oli was only dimly aware of the Wolves watching him now. Heart racing, Oliver let the mask slip, losing track of what were his actual feelings and what was part of the pretense. Connor’s hands were at his waist, sliding around to his back and inching slowly southward. Oliver was hard against Connor, his mind clouded with wanting, but his heartbeat drew him back.
Like a thunderous warning in his head, the racing beat brought Oliver back to himself. He was panting, his eyes misty, his jaw tight. The music was fast now. Their slow dance made no sense, but neither of them quite took the cue. Searching Connor’s eyes, Oliver didn’t understand what he was finding there. The glint in them wasn’t foreign to Oliver, but it was something he hadn’t seen in long years. Something he hadn’t looked for.
Oliver wasn’t sure how long they stood there, but he was suddenly aware they weren’t dancing anymore. Instead, they held each other, frozen in time in the middle of Hunt, breathing heavily. Something eclipsed Connor’s eyes, a flash of another part of him, and Oliver released him. He stepped back, trying to scrounge up the remnants of his cover. He laughed once or twice, then exhaled heavily.
Looking back at Connor, he said, “I should know better than to dance with you.” He wasn’t sure how he meant it, but Connor seemed to understand anyway. He shut his eyes and bowed his head in a form of apology.
“And yet you keep asking,” he said, so quietly Oliver wasn’t sure it was meant for anyone else to hear. Oliver bit the inside of his lip, lost in the meaning of Connor’s words, but he was dragged back to reality.
“Connor,” a voice said. Donna, Connor’s associate from Black Moon, had appeared at his shoulder. She nodded at Oliver, once, so much more at ease than Connor and Oliver. “We’ve got a problem. The new delivery is being held up at the border. You need to come sort this.”
Connor’s shadowed expression changed, suddenly open and clear. He nodded to Donna and stepped closer to Oli. Pressing his lips to Oliver’s ear again, his hand slipped around Oliver’s waist to the small of his back. “I’ll be right back. Just get another drink and try not to make trouble. Don’t worry. They don’t want to kill you; but they might want to do other things, after that dance.”
Oliver suppressed the face he was about to make and watched Connor retreat between a partially concealed corridor between the trees. A weight settled in him as Connor went, as though the weight of the sky was once again upon him. He felt inexplicably empty, but that feeling dissipated quickly.
As he glanced around, suddenly aware he was the lone Wizard in a room full of Werewolves, Oli traded emptiness for fear. Summoning his calm, Oliver turned back to the bar and retrieved his place there. The bartender, a man with arms so large he looked more bear than Wolf, appeared in front of him right away, ignoring some of the other Wolves in the process. He smiled minutely at Oliver, glancing back over his shoulder at where Connor had disappeared.
“What can I get you?” he asked, sounding genuine in his friendliness. Down the bar, some of the other Wolves appeared visibly put out.
“Whiskey on the rocks,” Oliver said, forgetting to ask for the added potion. The bartender nodded and reached for a bottle from the top shelf. Oliver tried to imagine himself back at one of the clubs in Nimueh’s Court, like the Sigil, or the Runemark, or the Familiar, where he so often found himself. He was never intimidated by anyone or anything there. He tried for the dismissive confidence he used on men at those clubs.
As the bartender poured him out two fingers of the best whiskey they stocked, Oliver tried to quell the anxiety building in him. These were just people. Sure, there was a potential suspect among them, but otherwise they were innocent. And if there was a murderer among them, they needed protecting from him as much as Oliver did.
Keep the innocent safe. Do your job.
“Where has Connor been hiding you all this time?” a voice said next to him. Oliver took the glass the bartender offered and sipped it before turning. The man next to him was built like a workhorse. He was broad and muscled, his j
aw wide and rough-shaven. He was opposite to all the refined power of Connor’s looks. This man was raw power, raw energy, and clearly not of the same bloodline. Something about his golden eyes, as Oliver studied his face, spoke of a different kin to Connor.
“Who said anything about hiding?” Oliver said, taking another sip of his drink.
“That’s usually what they call it when someone intentionally obscures information,” the Wolf answered. His voice was gravelly. “If he wasn’t hiding you, then why not bring you here sooner?”
Oliver tensed, his jaw tightening. He gave the Wolf a once-over and forced himself to lean back against the bar. “It’s hard for me to get away,” Oliver said. “So when I do, I make the most of it. Doesn’t leave a lot of time for socializing.”
The Wolf barked a laugh and moved closer still to Oliver. He smelled of pine and raw earth. “That talented, are you, that you can keep Connor busy for days?” He licked his lips, his canine teeth bared for only a moment. “What I could do with that kind of endurance.”
Oliver considered him appraisingly. “I’m just not sure you’re Wolf enough for me,” he said, and the Wolf’s eyes glittered dangerously.
“Only one way to find out,” he growled. “You’ve got spunk. I’m surprised Connor would go for that.” He was so close to Oliver now, Oliver could nearly taste the smell of him on the air. But moving away would have meant giving way, and Oliver was sure he shouldn’t do that.
Oliver bought himself time by taking another drink of whiskey. The alcohol began to burn down his neck, and his mind raced. Why was a Wolf so openly pursuing Oliver? He was already a consort, as far as they were concerned, wasn’t he? How did Werewolves treat their consorts?
A spark of fury rose in Oliver’s chest. Did Connor mean him to play a slut for every Wolf of his pack? Did consorts get passed around like toys in this world? Oliver was prepared for many things, but that was definitely not one of them. He’d said every Wolf would want to eat him alive, but was that more literal than Oliver thought? Did the Wolves of a pack routinely sample the flavours of their Alpha’s partners?
And then, it hit him, dissipating the fury as though a match put out by a downpour. Connor didn’t mean to pass Oliver around. This wasn’t normal pack behaviour at all; but neither was Oliver being a consort. They were testing him.
“What surprises me,” Oliver said, his words cutting, dipped in venom, “is that any Wolf would so openly disrespect his Alpha this way.” Oliver turned, placing his glass on the counter, and faced down the Wolf at his full height. “But maybe this is your way of openly challenging him.”
The Wolf’s golden eyes flashed with fear, and he took a step back. A smile drew itself on his lips, but his eyes still spoke of fright. “I support my Alpha with my life and loyalty,” he said, as though reciting from memory. “And that support extends to his consort. My apologies.” He bowed his head to Oliver and walked away.
Oliver followed him with his eyes, watching as the Wolf made his way to the side of the room where the other male Alpha stood. Oliver caught the man’s gaze a moment, and he nodded at Oli once, a kind of gesture to say ‘welcome to the playground.’
“So you did survive,” Connor said quietly, reappearing at Oliver’s side. “And, much to my surprise, so did the club.”
Oliver chuckled. “Just barely,” he said, looking up at Connor.
“Problem?” Connor asked, gesturing to the bartender for another drink. Oliver surveyed the Alpha across the room. He was listening intently to one of his Wolves whispering in his ear.
“Nothing I can’t handle,” Oliver said. “Who is that?” He nodded to the Alpha.
Connor glanced over. “Lane Irons,” Connor said. “Alpha of the Second Quarter. Why?”
Oliver took Connor’s hand. “He’s been watching me since we walked in. And not like the others. The other Wolves had looks of shock or confusion or disgust.” Connor’s jaw tightened, but Oliver continued, “Not him though. He looked suspicious. And just now he sent someone to test me, to see if I really am your consort. He knows something.” Oliver looked up at Connor, a satisfied smile on his face. “I think we should go find out what.”
Chapter 14
Connor and Oli walked over, hand in hand, with Oliver leaning into Connor with every step. It was becoming more natural to him, playing at Connor’s consort, even with a hundred Werewolves watching, aching to find a spy in their midst. The danger had become less intimidating and more exciting, but Oliver wasn’t sure when. Maybe when the broad Werewolf had come on to him, testing him on behalf of another Alpha. Outwitting those trying to undermine him did always make Oliver feel better.
But he wasn’t sure that was the moment—when pretending began to slide into wanting. It was more comfortable than he was willing to admit to himself. Having someone to turn to, someone who said they would come back and did, someone who always sought him out in a room.
A partner.
Oliver quashed the thought. He didn’t need a partner. He was better off on his own. A partner was only another person who could turn around and betray him, spilling his secrets to the world for profit. Or another person who could kill him, breaking his heart into a million shattered pieces when they left, without warning, or died.
Connor couldn’t be his partner, anyway. The politics of over a thousand years stood between them, not to mention a possible murder charge. Maybe that was exactly the point though. Connor wasn’t a possibility, so it was comfortable to play.
They stopped at the edge of the small circle of Wolves standing in front of Lane, and Oliver wound an arm around Connor’s waist. He was a half-step behind him, standing, and Lane did not miss it.
“Been a while,” Lane said, his voice rough as partially sanded wood. It had the echo of refinement with a practiced gruffness. The stubble at his chin, the artfully wrinkled shirt, and the bird’s head pendant around his neck told Oliver he wanted people to think him more rugged than his upbringing. “Seems longer than I thought, really. Last I saw you, Connor, you didn’t have a consort. Not a whiff of his scent on you then.”
Oliver’s jaw tightened slightly, his teeth tightly clamped together, but his eyes never left Lane. Connor pulled Oliver closer, his arm possessively strung around Oliver’s shoulders. Oliver considered their height difference a blessing here, making these kinds of gestures more fluid. Lane surveyed Connor’s arm, his gaze flitting over Oliver’s face as though he was more inflatable doll than Human.
“Some of us bathe more than once every new moon, Lane. And just because I don’t detail every inch of my exploits at pack gatherings, doesn’t mean I don’t have any,” Connor said. There was a breath of heat in his words, and it incensed Oliver.
“Clearly,” Lane said, sucking his teeth a moment. He smiled languidly, as though their conversation were not fraught with unspoken taunts. “Though I do seem to recall Eevie recounting the six dinners you shared to anyone who would listen. She seemed to think you were moments away from a formal promise. But I guess she didn’t know about the evenings you spent with Straya, or Marek, or Dax, did she?”
Oliver stayed his gaze, refusing to give Lane the indication of panic or jealousy he was obviously looking for. But it was difficult. Very difficult. The flare inside Oliver’s chest was something he didn’t expect, and his fingers tightened around the belt loop of Connor’s pants.
Connor smirked and tilted his head back. “I’m flattered, Lane,” he said. “I had no idea you were that interested in who I entertained. I was under the impression your consorts were satisfying enough, but had I known how fascinated you were with me, I might have invited you over, too.” With a careless shrug, he looked down at Oliver, licking his lips. “I’m afraid it’s too late for you, now. I’m spoken for.”
The muscles of Lane’s jaw bulged, and he stared down Connor for a moment. Oliver wasn’t sure why, but what Connor said was clearly more insulting than it seemed. And for the first time, through the torrent of jealousy and amusement and determination
, Oliver felt a tiny sliver of guilt.
If Connor was as innocent of Eloise’s murder as he claimed, Oliver’s use of him in his investigation was extremely dangerous. Oliver hadn’t considered how their little ploy might blow back on Connor later, when the investigation was done and Oliver returned to Nimueh’s Court. Was one night searching for leads enough to ruin all of Connor’s relationships?
He swallowed hard, his eyes straying from Lane for a moment to watch Connor. From this angle, as most others, Connor was beautiful. The pale halo of his hair left him with an ethereal glow, his smooth skin radiant in the starlight. His blue eyes were darker, more ocean-like from this vantage, and the planes of his face cast shadows that made him look otherworldly. As though Connor emerged, as Oliver watched, from the Dark World beneath, robed in shadow and shining with power.
Had Oliver just ruined his life?
Finally, after a long moment, Lane said, “You can understand how I might be a bit curious about your sudden relationship.” He glanced back at Oliver now. “Bringing a Wizard,” he spat the word as though it had a bitter taste, “into the heart of the pack on the same day a high-society Witch was murdered—it’s going to seem a mite coincidental.”
Oliver tensed but studied Lane more closely than ever. While Lane’s pointed look was focused on Connor, Oliver reached out to feel for his magical signature. A slash of claws, the singing of blade against blade, the quiet of a forest in midwinter, bark shaven from a fir tree, and the first breath after breaking the surface of water—Lane’s magical signature was a mess of contradictory things, but it didn’t match the signature of the killer. Still, he clearly knew something.
“Keeping abreast of news of the other Courts isn’t like you at all, Lane,” Connor said. “It’s almost responsible. Maybe it has been longer than I thought.”