“Commander, what can we do for you?” Devon’s smile was friendly and his body language open, even if his eyes were wary as hell. These two together clearly played to each other’s strengths.
“I’m retired… discharged, whatever. Same rank. You don’t have to call me that.” She chuckled self-consciously before sinking into a chair in front of the desk with a sigh. “I’m sorry. Today’s kind of gone to shit.”
“Are you okay?” Devon asked, taking the seat next to hers and mirroring her posture.
“I think it changes from minute to minute,” she answered honestly.
“Is there something we can do for you, Commander?” Xander repeated, clearly not into sharing feelings.
“Man, it’s ‘Miss’ if it’s anything, damn.” An insult about hawks being able to see for miles but unable to hear for shit was poised on her tongue, but she kept it back with a wan smile. “It’s Cora, preferably, but you seem to insist on a title.”
Devon snorted, a broad grin stretched over his lips. “Alright, Cora. What’s going on?”
“My assistant forwarded you the emails with the lab’s initial findings on Finn’s food.”
“Your assistant?”
“What’s wrong with Finn’s food?”
Both questions were asked at the same time, with both men looking at each other with wry grins. Clearly this wasn’t their first rodeo. “Start with the second,” Xander directed as he pulled up his email, signaling Devon to join him behind the desk. “Okay, what am I looking at?”
“Glass and copper? Explain, please.” Devon’s cocked head and narrowed eyes as he stared at her telegraphed his confusion.
“Heavy metal poisoning is slow usually. Builds up over time, causes liver damage, kidney damage, neurological issues. It’s actually pretty easy to do accidentally if you don’t know any better.”
Xander leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, clearly still unconvinced. “And what makes you think this is deliberate versus accidental?”
“Couple things. First, your kitchen staff would know not to cook acidic foods in copper pots. That’s the way this normally happens. Marinara in a copper pan or way too many Moscow Mules with limes. Occasionally shit happens, but that’s not the case here.” She paused because this was the part she truly needed them to appreciate. “That brings me to the glass. Hidden in the salt, you’re not going to see it and you’re going to eat it, and it’s going to cause microtears in your intestines and you’ll end up with a lot more copper in your body than you would otherwise have. This is deliberate and happening inside the palace.”
Devon sighed and nodded grimly. “Has Vasily seen this?”
“He got a copy too.”
Xander squeezed his eyes shut and dropped his head back before rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll call him,” he told Devon. “We’re gonna get this figured out, Cora. I promise.”
She appreciated his assurances. “Sooner rather than later. I’d rather not deal with a hungry wolf if I don’t have to.”
Xander’s lips twitched into an almost smile. “There’s a Duran Duran song in there somewhere, isn’t there?”
“Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up, birdbrain. It’s all fun and games until you look like chicken.”
“Methinks the lady doth protest,” he informed Devon with a sage nod.
“Oh, it’s like that?” his partner inquired glancing at her with a wicked grin and eyes that glinted with mischief.
He snickered. “What? I have eyes.”
Cora coughed deeply as his comment and accompanying unrepentant grin made her choke on her spit. “Yes, eyes that have been on parts of me that I would prefer you not think about right now. What is wrong with you?”
Devon thumped the blond on the back of his head with a disapproving glare. “Ignore him. He’s touched.”
This felt good, this easy camaraderie, this brothers-in-arms feeling she’d apparently been seeking by showing up on their doorstep. Xander’s phone went off then, and when he looked at it, he slid directly from giggles to a glower.
“Something wrong?” Cora asked, rising from the chair and ready to move out if he said so.
“As much fun as this has been,” he looked over to Devon who was already on his feet and buttoning his blazer, “I’m sorry, but we have to go.”
“Go where?”
“The King’s making a speech with the royal family and we need to be there.” The dark-eyed man took a couple steps and then stopped, turning back to her. “You should come too.”
“Me? Why?” It was a reasonable question even as she moved to follow both men through the Guards’ entrance to the palace.
Devon’s smile was not unkind. “I think the prince would appreciate you being there,” he informed her softly.
“Uh… no. We’re not public. More importantly, I can’t be public,” she objected, shaking her head vehemently. Cameras, she could handle; her glamour would take care of that without issue. Her relationship with the prince, however, was still very much under wraps, and without an official announcement, there was no way in hell she wanted to challenge that. The case was too important to rush or screw that kind of thing. Nope with a capital Hell No.
“See, I’ve been thinking about that,” Xander placed his hand on the small of her back as they boarded the elevator to the second floor, “And I have a plan.”
Chapter Ten
FINN
One of the benefits of being the third in line to the shifter throne was that stalking through the palace fully wolfed out wasn’t something that merited scrutiny. In fact, staring was generally frowned upon, though thankfully no longer punishable by lashings or worse.
The suit was a total loss, which was a pity because it had been one of his favorites. He could take that out on his aunt too, but there wasn’t a point to it, really, because she would never change. His whole life, she treated him as a spare part in a model kit, there if needed, but fuck off otherwise.
What he really wanted though was to reach out to Cora. Her face when she left him was burned in his brain, a welt that pained him every time he thought about it. He wanted to talk to her, to hear her voice. In his mind he knew that she was okay, that she was tougher than some hateful, hurtful diatribe from his aunt, but his heart could definitely do with some more convincing.
The peace and tranquility that came with returning to the sanctified quiet of his room allowed him to shift back fairly quickly. There was only the momentary spike of ire when he saw the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door and remembered his aunt’s commentary. Taking advantage of the rare moment of downtime, he hopped in the shower to clean up a bit and shake off the vestiges of rage that were still clinging to him while he mentally prepared for whatever pronouncement his father was going to make that required his presence.
No amount of loin-girding, though, prepared him for seeing Cora in the throne room. Off to the side and under a portable light stand that all but obscured her features, she was at the front of the press corps, phone out like she intended to record the proceedings. His cheeks heated at the slight tilt of her chin and knowing wink, but otherwise they didn’t interact as he took his place next to his brother behind their father. Aunt Gwen was there as well, but wisely kept to the other side of Brendan and gave him a wide berth.
It was a public announcement of the date of abdication and Brendan’s formal coronation, both of which would be the next full moon which was less than three weeks away. Combine that with his birthday gala the following night and he could almost taste his stress level. The ever-present pit of anxiety and despair flared in his stomach, but he managed to keep his face impassive. Living with the constant scrutiny of vultures—both literal and figurative—had taught him many things, but that was definitely one of the most important.
The moment the presser was done, his desire to stand and take questions from reporters was nonexistent, so he turned to disappear back into the warren of hallways that eventually led to the royal residences. Blissful quiet embraced him
as the mic’d up horde swarmed his brother. That was one benefit of not being the heir apparent.
His brother wasn’t ready to rule. Anyone with eyes knew that. Even though he was the older of the two, he had never really recovered from their mother’s death, drowning his pain in any number of intoxicants, both chemical and sexual. Still, if Finn couldn’t convince him to back down, which was highly likely, he hoped he could help steer the transition by giving his brother counsel and support, while he worked on a new plan. He would never torch the kingdom just to advance his agenda. That was more Brendan’s style than his, anyway.
The door to the throne room popped open then, startling him from his thoughts. The din of so many people and their differing agendas had died down to only a few voices and the sound of equipment being moved. Brendan slipped through with a quick glance over his shoulder and came to a screeching halt in front of Finn. With his long hair pulled back into a half ponytail and his emerald green tie, he looked like a well-dressed wraith, everything about him thin and rangy, too ethereal to be real and too sharp an edge not to be.
His blue eyes widened for a moment, fright plain on his features before he regained his composure. “Finnegan,” he acknowledged him with a dip of his chin as he attempted to brush past him.
“Bren.” Finn loosely snagged his wrist as he passed, hoping that the thinner man wouldn’t swing on him. Last thing either of them needed was a fistfight with the press so nearby.
For a long moment everything is still between them, silent and motionless like the world was standing still waiting on them to make a decision as to how this was going to go.
The crown prince shook off Finn’s hand with a flick of the wrist, looking very put out at the physical contact. “What do you want, Brother?”
“I want to let you know that I’m here to support you if you need me.”
“You, support me?” The mocking tone reeked of contempt. “Do tell.”
Blinking away his initial acerbic reply, Finn exhaled deeply. “Everything leading to this has been… difficult. Arduous.” To say the very least. “And as much as I know these last few years haven’t been kind to any of us—”
“You think?”
He continued on like Brendan hadn’t just lanced into him with his tongue. “I want you to know that we’re still brothers and you can count—”
“If you finish that sentence, I will disembowel you right here and claim Lunacy.” Lunacy, by its very definition, was a werewolf-specific charge that fell somewhere between ‘crime of passion’ and ‘they had it coming’, and not one leveled lightly, especially among the House Lupine.
“You’re welcome to try.” He’d like to think he was channeling Cora’s brand of chilling menace but knew that was probably a lot to hope for. Just because he truly did not want to fight did not mean he wouldn’t if pushed.
“Look at you,” Brendan purred condescendingly as he circled him slowly. “All big and bad with your righteous anger and your upright morals. The saint, they call you. The Humanitarian,” he hissed the word like it was an epithet. “You’re no better than me. Your only claim to fame is you’re better at hiding it. But I know you.”
Dammit, he came to offer support, not pick a damn fight with the man. Maybe lack of food was allowing his hangry impulses to drive. No more though. “It doesn’t have to be like this.”
“Like this? Like you’re mocking me, like you, and every single other shifter in the kingdom, don’t find me unfit for the throne? Don’t think I don’t know what’s said. Whispered about in the halls, writ large in the headlines.” He snarled and paced away a few steps, every heaving breath popping seams as he fought against his shift. Apparently, suits were a dime a dozen in the kingdom tonight.
“Then change it.” Against his better judgement, Finn followed him down the hall, yanking him to a halt. When Brendan rounded on him, he held up both hands and took a step back to show his lack of aggressive intent. “Surprise them and be better than they expect. Be great and let them talk about that. Their opinion of you does not have to be static. Give them a reason to see something else.”
For a moment, just a fleeting instant, the dark clouds parted and Brendan’s face relaxed, jaw unclenched, vein in his forehead receded. And then the lightning struck. “It’s amazing to me how incredibly naive you are. How you’ve lived so long with your Pollyanna worldview and your delicate sensibilities I’ll never know. Your compassion and empathy are wasted on me, Finnegan.” He snorted. “Offering me your support like you give a damn about me. Like you’ve ever given a damn about me.”
“You’re my brother.”
“A mistake of bloodline only, I assure you.” Not even allowing him to reply, he stalked off down the hall, snarling at the staff as he passed them, seeming to delight in the collection of cowering employees left in his wake.
Finn remained in the hallway outside the throne room for a moment, collecting himself so he didn’t repeat his brother’s atrocious behavior. Each deep, cleansing breath, though, was tinged with the faint scent of steak and his stomach growled loud enough that a passing maid stopped and eyed him with askance. A hungry wolf was not the kind of thing you turned your back on.
“Sorry,” he offered her as he ducked his head in shame and scurried back to his quarters. He hoped to have Cora come as well, and as soon as he was out of his suit and relaxed, he’d call her.
The sight, and smells, that greeted him upon opening this bedroom door stopped him in his tracks. Cora sat on his couch reading from her phone, legs outstretched across the cushions and crossed at the ankles, feet bare, looking for all the world like she belonged there. In front of her on one of the serving carts was two silver domes as per usual, and a large, handled paper bag on the floor facing him.
“I—how?”
“Hey.” She smiled warmly as she rose from the couch. It was incredible to him how much her smile eased his mind. Like all the turmoil with Brendan receded just a bit and let him breathe.
He was struck full on by her unreasonable beauty as she approached him with a glass of red wine in hand. She moved like a predator, all sleek lines and focus. Her dark skin and draped gray dress gave her a kind of sculptural quality, breathtaking sexiness in motion, right down to her delicately painted toes. He knew he shouldn’t think of her in those terms, but damn if he could help it.
“Miss Westgate, I don’t remember you being a member of the press corps,” he teased. The tiny smile that tugged at his lips showed itself despite his best efforts at remaining serious.
Her dimples only made her more beautiful to him. “I took the ‘if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em’ approach. Truthfully though, I didn’t think you wanted to answer questions about us, no?”
Finn nodded vehemently as she handed him the half full chalice. “There’s a whole lot I’d rather not discuss right now.”
“Can’t say as I blame you, really.”
His stomach growled as the scent of steak wafted past him again and Cora giggled. “What? I’m starving,” he grumbled as he approached the cart and lifted one of the silver domes. A bracingly rare steak, possibly the largest one he’d ever seen, lay on a serving platter, accompanied by a pile of garlic smashed potatoes and a forest of prosciutto wrapped asparagus grilled. He could have wept for joy. An engraved calling card rested just under the edge of his plate.
D’Antonio’s has been run by the same family since 1887, a family of tightknit Bubalines who took their Michelin star rating very, very seriously. Asking for takeout could get you banned. It just wasn’t done, and yet….
“Emilio,” he blinked at her, agog at her obvious display of power and will, “doesn’t do takeout.”
She primly took her seat and lay the napkin across her lap. “He does whatever I ask of him for enough money and for me not to have his horns ripped out.”
Her tone was so casual, phrasing so very exact, it was hard to tell if she was joking or not. Probably best not to know either way. Finn wasted no time diving into his mass
ive porterhouse steak that had to be all of seventy-six ounces and asparagus. He moaned on the first bite, “You are a goddess and should be worshipped accordingly.”
She scoffed and ducked her head, but her dimples gave her amusement away as she carved up her own rare meat. “And you’ve only seen me naked once.”
“Twice-ish.”
“Who’s counting?” she asked around a mouthful of steak.
He took a few more bites of his food before leaning back to sip his wine. “I can’t believe you’d do this for me. Thank you.”
Cora looked up from her mashed potatoes. “Don’t thank me; it was self-preservation. You missed lunch, and these legs,” she used her fork to draw his eyes to her long, perfectly statuesque gams crossed next to the table, “ain’t made of chicken. Feathers notwithstanding.”
Finn huffed a quick laugh over his plate. “Noted. Though I will say, they do look quite edible.” He didn’t miss the hitch in her breath, or the growl she used to cover it, pleased that he could affect her so.
“That was smooth, Highness. Inappropriate, but smooth.”
Her use of his title brought him up short, like she was distancing herself from him. “I feel like I should apologize.” For this, and so many other transgressions, large and small.
Wiping her mouth with her napkin, she sat back, eyes assessing his every move. “That’s not necessary.”
“It kinda is, though.” Sensing that he probably wouldn’t get a better opening, he dropped his napkin and moved his chair around to be next to her, taking her hand in both of his. “I know you heard what my aunt said—”
“You don’t have to apologize for her,” she interjected with dark eyes like smoldering embers. “You don’t owe me shit where she’s concerned.”
“I do, though. I didn’t stop her soon enough. Didn’t react—”
“You went full wolf on her,” she reminded him dryly, sounding suddenly exhausted. “How much more reaction did you need?”
A Killing Moon Page 12