LYRE
The RV is parked where it should be, easing some of the stress from my shoulders.
Knowing she made it safely and seeing it for myself are two different things.
Sucking in a breath of cooler night air, I tell Aaron, "Take the boys to a motel for the night."
Aaron freezes as he steps out of the vehicle, his shoulders stiffening as he slams the door closed. The night air hangs heavy, charged with something more than just the sound of the generator running, and I look at him with a frown.
"I thought I was staying with you," he says with a sigh, leaning back against the SUV with his arms crossed.
I raise one eyebrow, almost scoffing. Really?
But then I notice it—the slight furrow between his brows, the barely-there flare of his aura shifting from confusion to irritation. He’s trying so hard not to show it, keeping his face neutral except for the one tiny tell.
He’s serious.
Seriously, give a man one orgasm...
"There’s no reason for you to stay with me." My reply is calm and measured. Better to keep things simple.
Maybe he won’t be a great toy after all. His wolfish instincts are already rising, trying to claim me. Possess me as his own.
Not happening.
A beat of silence stretches in the night. Owen’s awake, but doesn’t open the door; he can hear every word, and he seems to have the presence of mind to keep out of this awkward situation.
He already knows things have transpired between us. Angels aren’t nose-blind like other supernaturals in this world.
Aaron’s eyes flick toward the RV, then back to me. I watch his expression dim—just for a second, a flash of hurt crossing his face before it flattens into nothing.
Better to hurt him now, before he gets too serious.
"I’ll take the others," he says finally. "Get them some rest, Lyre."
As simple as that. No argument. No questions. Just acquiescence followed by the sound of him herding the others into his truck.
I feel a twinge of—something—as I watch the taillights fade down the gravel road, leaving me alone with my arcana-charged camper and whatever mess waits inside.
I’ve seen countless men bruised by my dismissal over the centuries. It’s never bothered me before.
Maybe I’m getting soft.
The creaking of the RV door interrupts my thoughts.
In the doorway stands the annoying blockheaded Lycan King, his broad silhouette blocking most of the light from inside. His wolf pads out in front of him, ethereal and massive against the night.
I stiffen.
The smell hits me full force—Grace’s scent, wrapped in arcana, and unmistakably intertwined with sex. My lips curl into a cold, almost-smile.
I’m going to kill this son of a bitch.
"Where is she?"
"She’s resting," Caine replies, his tone clipped and emotionless. Aloof and unburdened by fear as he closes the door behind him and makes his way closer.
This piece of shit.
My gaze sharpens as I snark, "Is that what we’re calling it now?"
I circle him slowly, predatory and cool. Smelling him. Scenting every trace of what transpired here while I was gone. This foolish animal king with his instincts and his needs, unable to control himself around his mate.
"You couldn’t keep your claws to yourself for a single day?" I ask, the words dripping with contempt.
Caine doesn’t rise to it. His tone remains flat, detached. "What happens between me and Grace isn’t your concern, Lyre."
My fingers flex at my sides. My palms ache to spark with resonance, to pull at the fabric of reality and show this pup exactly what concern looks like. But I think of the blasted Divinity App, of the restrictions threatening to bind me.
If I get slapped with another Plausibility Warning here, I might lose access to my power. Or worse.
Even an hour without the power to defend Grace...
My teeth grind together, and I know the asshole wolf can hear it.
Fenris growls, and I stifle the urge to kick him in his massive muzzle.
Caine steps closer, crowding my space. The air presses down—a pulse of dominance, primal and laced with challenge, rolls off him in waves meant to cow lesser creatures.
I don’t flinch.
Instead, I release a faint signature of my own—calm, cold, and infinitely older than his bloodline. The pressure disperses around me. Neutralized.
His nostrils flare. His jaw tightens. A silent standoff between ancient predators, neither willing to yield.
Sorry, pup, but I’ve been dealing with your kind for far too fucking long.
"How far did you go?" I ask quietly.
Calm, Lyre. Stay fucking calm.
Caine says nothing, but his scent shifts.
Guilt.
My eyes flash. "Did you fuck her, you sex-crazed bastard?"
He tenses, but doesn’t say a word to defend himself.
Interesting. The legendary Lycan King, known for his brutality, restraining himself. If I hit him first, Grace will be upset.
So I don’t.
Even though I really want to.
A punch won’t trigger Plausibility, will it?
Just one punch.
Or a kick between his stupid fucking legs... though, if he’s incapable of siring children, I’ll probably get slammed with at least three Plausibility Warnings for obstructing her fate.
Damn it.
"That’s not your business," he says finally.
I draw in a long breath. Let it out. "It is if you break her," I say softly. "I told you not to touch her, didn’t I? Several times. You acknowledged it. I warned you."
A shadow crosses his face. He sighs, running a hand through his dark hair, the tattoos against his neck shifting slightly in the moonlight.
"She’s fine. Just tired." Another hesitation. "She thought she could control the transfer."
I stiffen, startled. "She felt it? Properly felt it?"
"It seems like it. I don’t understand it, but she seems to feel something."
Already? It shouldn’t be possible. Not this quickly, not without training. She was arcane-deaf a few days ago. Now she’s able to feel an arcane transfer...?
My eyes narrow as pieces fall into place. "Tell me about the storm."