Storm's Heart

FIVE

She tensed. Tiago tapped her nose with a forefinger. “Wrong response,” he whispered to her. “Remember, the world waits for you. Okay?”

She took a deep breath and made herself relax. “Okay.”

Tiago turned, his demeanor calm and unhurried. “Hughes, what an asinine thing to tell a hotel manager. They can throw as much of a fit as they like, as long as it doesn’t get them past the stairwell doors. Understand?”

The manager swallowed and nodded. “The floor’s been searched and evacuated. There are two guards at each stairwell door, and the elevators have been locked down for now.”

“Good. That’s how things stay” He turned back to her. “How is it going?”

She said, “The itching has stopped.”

“Excellent, and the wound is no longer draining,” Dr. Weylan told her. “That means the extraction has run its course. I’m going to close the puncture with just a few stitches and bandage you up. Once I cast a quick cleansing spell, you can get some real rest.”

She nodded, and the doctor was finished in no time. She put out a hand to stop him when he would have cast the cleansing spell. Tiago scowled, but she ignored him as she asked the doctor, “I’m already feeling shaky. I would like to get cleaned up before you cast that spell.”

He smiled at her. “Good idea.”

She had barely made a move to sit up when Tiago was there to slide his arms under her shoulders and knees and lift her upright. He hooked the IV bag onto a finger and carried her, still wrapped in a blanket, through the nearest bedroom and into its bathroom.

He set her on her feet with care. She turned and reached for the IV bag. He held it out of reach. “Stop it,” he said. “I’ll help you.”

Feverish color touched her cheekbones. She frowned at him. “I don’t think so. This is the end of the line for you, cowboy.” He opened his mouth to argue, and she told him, “There are some things a girl likes to do on her own.”

Amusement danced in his dark eyes. “There’s nothing you could do that I haven’t seen an army of uglier, hairier people do thousands of times before.”

“That may be,” she said with dignity, “but you haven’t seen me do any of it before. Please don’t argue with me on this one, Tiago. I’m tired and I hurt all over, and I want to go to bed.”

His mouth tightened, but he nodded. He checked the back of the bathroom door and hung the saline bag on the hook he found. “Don’t lock the door,” he told her. “I’ll be right on the other side.”

Who knew that the Wyr warlord’s real animal form was a mother hen? She rolled her eyes and sighed. “Fine. Get out.”

He shut the door.

She debated the possible merits of another shower while she used the toilet, but she simply didn’t have the energy to figure out how she might work that with the IV needle in the back of one hand. Instead she washed her face at the sink and brushed her teeth with the complimentary supplies.

There was so much to do, so much to plan for and an entire political minefield to maneuver, and the simple act of getting clean was almost too much for her. How long would Tiago stay to help? He had promised he would stay until she wasn’t sick any longer, but what did that mean? Would he leave after she slept and he had seen her into safe hands? That was the reasonable thing to expect.

She was shaking again and feeling irrational as she opened the bathroom door. Tiago was leaning against the wall just outside, arms crossed as he waited for her. He straightened when the door opened. She asked, “Can you help me get this bloody T-shirt off?”

He took one look at her distressed face, and his expression softened. “Of course I will.” He put the toilet seat down and guided her to sit. Then he knelt in front of her and stroked her hair as he looked with concern into her eyes. “Is it the T-shirt that’s got you upset?”

Her gaze fell away from his. She shook her head and her lips trembled.

“Then what is it?” He bent his head and tried to catch her eye. She wouldn’t let him. “Talk to me.”

She had to say it to somebody, at least just once. “I wanted a cousin who liked me,” she whispered. Her face crumpled.

The breath left his lungs as if she had sucker punched him. He gathered her close. She put her head on his shoulder and cried as he rocked her. He was so big he filled the bathroom. It felt so right to lean on him, to breathe in his scent and let him stroke her hair and rub her back and murmur to her. It almost made her believe in good things. She was too tired to fight it. She rested against him and let her cold, tired bones soak in his strength and warmth.

“It’s never going to happen again,” he told her. “I swear it. I wish to God I had been there to prevent it from happening the first time. It sucks that I wasn’t. But I’m telling you now, faerie—it’s never going to happen again.”

She rested her cheek in the hollow above his sturdy collarbone. The thick muscles of his chest were tight, and she could feel the ridges of his bunched biceps as he wrapped his arms around her. He spoke with all the force of a vow as he cupped the back of her head, and she hid her face in his neck. She gave up thinking that’s impossible and instead gave herself over to his keeping.

Tiago sensed a presence. He turned his head to glare daggers at the doctor, who had come to check on them. The human male raised his hand with a sympathetic wince and backed out of sight. Tiago turned his attention back to the small bundle of misery he held with such tense protectiveness.

He put his cheek to her hair. The scent of cigarette smoke had faded, leaving the soft, silky black hair smelling of herbal shampoo, rain and woman. He pressed a kiss to the delicate contour of her temple.

What was it about her that got him so messed up? He had never paid that much attention to her other than to cock an amused eyebrow at something she had said or done, or to shake his head whenever he saw yet another person fall victim to that indefinable, effervescent charm of hers.

Her wounded vulnerability—it was a scourge that raked underneath his skin, scoring him deep inside in places he hadn’t even known existed. His hand fisted in the hair at the back of her head.

The vengeful warlord in him longed to destroy Geril, except the Dark Fae male was already dead. Tiago wanted to cause somebody major structural damage, but there was no one to fight. The lack bewildered him. He had all this fury and nowhere to vent it. Heaven help any fool who might try another assassination attempt. Tiago would come down on them with all the force of the frustrated cataclysm he had pent up inside.

She was too exhausted to cry for long, as the fever continued to rack her with shivers. Tiago sat back on his heels when he felt her tremble. He took a knife from the leg pocket of his fatigues and cut the T-shirt off her body. Underneath, the little camo shirt with spaghetti straps was also the worse for wear, the area under her breasts spotted with blood. He cut that away too, leaving her in the sports bra and those ludicrous shorts.

Then he carried her into the shadowed bedroom, tucked her into the large bed and hung the IV bag on the handle of the bedside lamp. He sat on the edge of the bed and stroked the hair off her forehead as she lay shivering under the covers, those large dark gray eyes glittering jewel-like under half-closed eyelids.

He called for the doctor, who came at once into the room to cast the cleansing spell. For several moments her body was filled with a strange tingling energy. It faded soon enough and left a bone-deep lethargy in its wake. It would take her body a little while to catch up to the fact that there was no more infection to fight off. The doctor left a couple of bottles of water on the bedside table and promised that he would check on her after she awakened. When he stepped out of the room, he left the bedroom door open a few inches, which threw a band of light across the foot of the bed.

Tiago stretched out on the covers beside her, the ever-present Glock near at hand on the table alongside the bottled water. “I’ll stay until you’re asleep,” he said, turning on his side so that he faced her.

For a panicked moment her overtired brain thought he meant he would actually leave when she was asleep, but it was too soon for him to go. She wasn’t ready to survive on her own yet. Then sanity caught up with her as he folded her hand in his. She nodded and let her eyes drift shut.

Tiago asked quietly, “Why are you doing this? Why did you insist on coming here earlier when I said I was taking you back to New York? It’s admirable you’re working to keep someone like Urien from taking the Dark Fae throne, but you’ve made it clear that you don’t really want to be Queen.”

She was silent for a long moment until he thought she had already fallen asleep. Then she said, “I don’t know if I can put it into words in the right way. I appreciate what you said outside, that Niniane didn’t die, she just went into hiding, and in a way you’re right. But in a way, I’m right too. Urien killed that teenage girl just as surely as he killed her family. Going back and claiming the throne is the only way I can get justice for her, and for her parents and brothers.”

He took a breath and squeezed her fingers tight. “Justice,” he murmured. He could understand that. “It’s been a long time coming, hasn’t it?”

She whispered, “I remember what happened like it was yesterday. That night hasn’t ended for me. I just learned to live around it.” She turned her head and looked into his dark eyes. “I have to put them all to rest. I have to bring to justice any of the Dark Fae who worked with my uncle, and help those he victimized like he victimized me. I don’t even want to do it, but I have to go back. I have to find peace or die trying.”

His Power mantled and covered her, a swift, invisible storm of protective Wyr male energy. He cupped her chin, a quick hard hold, his hawkish face turning blade sharp. “I don’t want to hear another word like that. You will wipe that from your mind and your vocabulary right now.”

His personality was too forceful, too much. It beat against her hypersensitive skin. She murmured, “Tiago.” That was all, just his name. She closed her eyes.

After a moment the angry force of his Power eased and became soothing. Hard fingers stroked her cheek, and his mouth covered hers in a brief warm caress. “Poor tired faerie. Sleep now,” he whispered. “Don’t worry about a thing. Just sleep.”

She had no other choice. She fell off a cliff into darkness.

As soon as Niniane had been settled in bed with some degree of comfort, Tiago shifted into high gear. He yanked out his cell phone and punched in a call.

Rune picked up on the first ring. “What do you need?”

“We got a shitload of trouble postmarked for our address,” Tiago told him. “If it hasn’t hit the fan yet, it will soon.”

“You guys safe?”

“Yeah.” He told the other sentinel their room number. “We’re good.”

“How’s our favorite princess?”

“She’s okay,” Tiago told him. “She’s stressed out, of course, and exhausted. The wound was infected, so the doc had to give her a cleansing spell. She just fell asleep.”

“So about this shitload of trouble.”

“There was another attack.”

“You happened to mention that precious fact when you threatened to shoot a gaggle of reporters, camera crews and paparazzi outside the Regent. I’m here to tell you, son, you are one motherfucking public relations nightmare.” Rune did not sound concerned. He cracked gum. “You look cute on TV though.”

Tiago paced the living room. “Would you trust your life to anyone in Chicago? Really. Trust.”

A short pause grew invisible talons and fangs. “Spill it,” said Rune. The other sentinel’s former amiability had vaporized into the flat, cold tones of the Wyr warrior that had fought his way to become Cuelebre’s First.

“There was a triad involved in the attack,” said Tiago. “They were dressed to look like they were Dark Fae, but they weren’t. Rune, they were Wyr.”

Niniane stayed in a deep, dreamless sleep until bodily needs forced her awake. She struggled to get out of bed and knocked a bottle of water off the bedside table. Suddenly Tiago was there. He carried her into the bathroom, and this time he insisted on staying. She felt so weak and leaden she didn’t have the energy to argue with him or to be embarrassed. Instead, she leaned against him, eyes closed, as he helped to pull her underwear down and ease her onto the toilet. When she had finished and they had washed their hands, he scooped her up again and carried her back to bed.

“I want this damn thing off,” she mumbled as he tucked the covers around her.

“What damn thing?” he asked. He smoothed the hair off her forehead.

She twitched the hand with the IV. “If I have to pee, I’m not dehydrated enough to need this anymore.”

He squeezed her fingers. “I’ll talk to the doctor.”

A few minutes later the doctor came into the bedroom. He eased the IV needle out of her skin and covered the puncture with a small section of cotton pad folded under a Band-Aid. She muttered thanks, curled up on her unwounded side and fell back asleep.

The rest of the day flew by for Tiago. He was on the phone more often than not. Fifteen minutes after he had dropped his bombshell, Rune called back. It was too late to send a cleanup crew to the scene of the second attack. The police had already been called, and the crime scene was being processed. Rune and Aryal were headed to Chicago to investigate the Wyr involvement in the assassination attempt.

In the meantime Tiago triangulated with the gargoyle sentinel Grym, who was head of security back in New York, and the Chicago police commissioner, until they came up with a list of senior level police officers they could all agree upon for a task force specifically set up for Niniane’s protection.

Once the list was solidified, Tiago began to work with the leader of the CPD task force. Lieutenant Cameron Rogers, a twenty-year veteran of the Chicago police, arrived at the Regent within the hour. She was a tall, sandy-haired, freckled woman in her early forties with the strong, bright energy of a self-confident athlete, and she combined sturdy efficiency with a sense of humor. Once the hotel floor was locked down with more than just two undercover cops posing as hotel guards, Tiago turned his attention to other things.

Tiago refused to leave Niniane’s bedroom door unguarded. After Tucker delivered his duffle bag and Cameron brought it up to him, he dragged the kitchen table over so that he could set up the laptop and work.

The next item on his list was to look over the personnel files of the staff Hughes chose to cook and houseclean. He rejected a few, sent the rest to Grym to screen, and by the afternoon they had settled on four staff that would, along with Dr. Weylan, occupy the two neighboring suites. Weylan volunteered to magically screen all the delivered food supplies for poison. The CPD task force dealt with the details of settling in the hotel staff and developing a secure food delivery system.

Tiago ran into a snag when the Dark Fae delegation, located on the penthouse floor, refused to “legitimize his interference” and send any of Niniane’s possessions down. Rogers was the one to knock on the suite door and inform him.

She said, “Incomprehensible bastards. Why would they refuse to send her some pajamas, for God’s sake?”

Tiago stared at the long-limbed lieutenant without really seeing her. “They’re maintaining a precedent for when the representative of the Elder tribunal arrives,” he said. “They’re going to claim I am holding her here illegally. If they cooperate, it will weaken their argument. They’re going to try to get rid of me.”

Stupid Fae. He would blow up the hotel before that happened. Preferably with the delegation still in it.

“Whatever they’re doing, the result is kind of cruel. It leaves her without anything but complimentary hotel crap,” said Rogers. The policewoman folded her arms as she stood hipshot. “I’ll go out and get her some stuff. Just give me her clothes size.”

He gave her a blank stare. “I have no idea,” he muttered. “Hold on.” He slipped through the silent bedroom to dig the ruined T-shirts out of the bathroom trash then moved back to the suite door. He told the lieutenant, “She’s an extra small.”

“Christ, she’s just a teeny-tiny thing,” the other woman swore. “Who could knife somebody like that?”

“Kinda like kicking a puppy,” he agreed. He dug a money clip out of his pocket and handed a wad of bills to her.

Her sandy eyebrows twitched as she did a quick count of the cash. “You do realize you just gave me five thousand dollars, right?”

“What?” he said with a scowl. “Is that not enough?”

“No, I’d say that’s quite sufficient.” She grinned and turned to go.

“Wait,” he said. When the policewoman paused and looked an inquiry at him, he rubbed the back of his neck and glared at the carpet as he tried to navigate in his head the foreign concepts involved in female frippery. “She likes pretty clothes. And lipstick, she likes lipstick and dangly earrings and things like that, with all the colors matching. And chocolate—could you buy her a box of chocolates? Maybe some of the stuff could be gift wrapped.”

Rogers’s gaze softened. Tiago’s face darkened as the policewoman gave him a kind smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes. She asked, “Anything else?”

He scowled as he thought. What was all the stuff that Dragos’s mate got when she was convalescing? Well, aside from the diamond ring and shit. “Froufrou magazines,” he muttered. “You know, the girly stuff.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to go shopping for her yourself?”

His gaze jerked up to meet Rogers’s, and he shook his head. Unless it involved the word semiautomatic somewhere, he wouldn’t have the first clue. “I’m not leaving her,” he said. “You’ll have to do it. I’m sure what you pick out will be fine. I just want you to make sure it’s nice.”

“I will,” she promised. “The hotel’s surrounded by the best shops and department stores in Chicago. I’ll stay close and be back soon.”

“You do that,” he said.

When Niniane fell asleep the second time, she tumbled back into the deep, dreamless rest of profound exhaustion.

Then she turned her head. What was that noise? She looked around. She was standing in one of the many hallways of the Dark Fae palace, its spare elegant familiarity turned strange in the dark, blue-shadowed night. A full moon shone through tall windows and threw glints of silver on dark, heavy furniture.

A single set of unhurried footsteps echoed through the silent halls, a quiet yet defined click of booted heels on hard polished floors. It was a small, ordinary, utterly grotesque sound. Death walked through her home and left no one alive. Dread and adrenaline pulsed through her, shaking her limbs and drying out her mouth. The owner of those footsteps was hunting for her.

She had to run. She had to escape from the charnel house that had once been her home, but she couldn’t remember the way out. She ran down the hall, silent in bare feet, frantic to find an escape from the building. She slipped in a pool of warm, sticky blood and fell to her hands and knees. It was her twin brothers’ blood. She looked up. Their small, lifeless five-year-old bodies had been flung into a corner like abandoned dolls.

There were so many windows. She could see the familiar silver-edged roll of landscape outside, but she didn’t dare break the glass, because it would make noise and draw the attention of the monstrous thing that hunted her in the shadows. She couldn’t find a door. She knew this place. Why couldn’t she remember where the doors were?

The footsteps came closer. A chill Power ghosted through the rooms, curling around furniture, slipping under doors, tightening in the air like the coils of a boa constrictor wrapped around its prey. She blundered into a closet and fought through clothing to get to the back. She sank into a shivering ball in the suffocating dark as a scream built up in the back of her throat, but she couldn’t make a sound. She would be slaughtered if she made so much as a whimper. She clapped both hands over her mouth. Her rattled breathing sounded in her own ears as loud as a shout. The footsteps drew closer, and she drowned in her own panic.

She plunged awake, both hands clapped over her mouth. She was shaking all over and drenched in a cold sweat that had nothing to do with her injury. For a few pulse-pounding moments the shadowed hotel bedroom was as grotesque and terrifying as the dreamscape she had just exited. Then reality re-formed and settled into place.

She forced her rigid body to relax, muscle by muscle, and lay with a hand over her eyes as her heart rate slowed and her breathing quieted. It had been a long time since she had dreamed of suffocating in her own panic as her uncle Urien hunted her. The nightmare had once been a nightly occurrence. She supposed she shouldn’t be surprised at its return, but she sure as hell didn’t welcome it.

Finally thirst spurred her to movement. She fumbled for a bottle of water, broke the seal and drank most of the contents before coming up for air. She sank back onto the pillows, cradling the water bottle as she yawned so hard her jaw popped.

If the doctor hadn’t already warned her, she would have been alarmed at how lethargy weighed down her body. The wound still hurt but not with the same kind of inflamed throbbing it had when it had been infected. At least her skin no longer felt like someone had scored it with tiny razor blades. It felt like the fever was gone.

The bedroom was dark and cool. A band of light from the partially closed door shone across the foot of the bed. The television was playing in the other room. It sounded like a news channel. She yawned again and finished her water. She felt hollowed out, and still tired and shaky, but she didn’t think she could sleep any longer.

She clicked on the bedside light, and a moment later Tiago appeared. His long, powerful body filled up the doorway, his lean hawkish features alert. He had changed at some point into a black T-shirt, jeans and boots. The cotton of his shirt strained across the wide muscles of his chest and arms. He wore a shoulder holster and gun. His Power filled the room as he glanced around, and then he looked at her.

She glowered as she remembered how he had helped her to the bathroom. He had shown no sign of unease or self-consciousness but instead had helped her with calm practicality. Still, she pulled the sheet up and tucked it under her arms. She was an earthy person. She wasn’t used to being embarrassed by her body. Why was this any different? All she knew was he was so damn big and overwhelming, and she had an extreme awareness of her own vulnerability around him.

He strode over to her and sat on the edge of the bed, and she fought to keep from cringing from him. A couple of lines appeared between the dark slash of his brows. “How’re you feeling?” he asked.

She ducked her head. “Tired and hungry. A little disoriented.”

“Your wound?”

“It hurts, but nothing like it did before. How long did I sleep?”

“Almost twenty-four hours,” he told her.

Her head came up. “You’re kidding.”

“You got up that once to complain about the IV and go to the bathroom, but other than that, you slept a day away. No wonder you’re hungry. I don’t think you’ve had anything to eat for over two days except for vodka and Cheetos.” His frown deepened. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she said.

Those sharp dark eyes dissected her defensive, hunched figure. “I don’t believe you. What’s wrong?”

“Don’t start poking at me until I’ve at least had a cup of coffee and a hot shower,” she said on a spurt of irritation.

For a moment she thought he was going to keep digging at her, but then he smiled a little. “Fair enough. Do you think you can shower by yourself, or are you too shaky?”

“I’ll manage,” she growled as she clutched the sheet tighter to her chest.

“Okay,” he said in a mild enough tone. “I’ll make fresh coffee and order some food. Call if you need anything.”

“I won’t,” she said. “Need anything, that is.”

“Right.” He contemplated her for another moment, as if she was a piece of museum art he didn’t comprehend. Then he stood and walked out. He left the bedroom door ajar again.

She wobbled to her feet and steadied herself with one hand against the wall until she was sure she wouldn’t pass out. When she felt steady enough she went to shut the bedroom door. She took a complimentary hotel bathrobe into the bathroom, shut and locked the door and showered. The doctor had covered her wound with a waterproof dressing. Her side gave a twinge if she didn’t remember to move carefully, but otherwise it gave her little trouble.

Afterward she considered herself in the mirror as she brushed her teeth. The dramatic purple circles under her eyes had faded to dark smudges. After a cursory examination she ignored her depressed face. There wasn’t anything she could do about her appearance anyway. She finger-combed her damp glistening hair, shrugged on the bathrobe and walked into the living room.

She hadn’t been able to retain many details when they had arrived, so she took a moment to appreciate the understated decor before curling up at one end of the sofa. With a simple color scheme of blues and tans, the suite was plain but well-appointed with sturdy comfortable furniture that had good lines, along with dark wood tables and lamps that provided indirect lighting.

They were in a business suite suitable for someone staying for several days or weeks. It was complete with a small kitchen, or so she surmised from what Scott had said earlier and from what she could see from where she sat. The suite seemed very small compared to the $30,000-a-night rooftop penthouse where she had been staying with the Dark Fae delegation. That sixbedroom penthouse took up the entire top floor of the hotel and came complete with its own kitchen and staff, rooftop garden patio, indoor pool, library, an original Tiffany stained-glass window and a grand piano in the crystal-chandelier-lit foyer. It was very grand and luxurious, but she liked this one’s coziness and functionality.

The living room had a disarranged appearance. A table with a laptop and chair was near the bedroom door. Shopping bags were piled against one wall. Weapon parts were laid out neatly on the coffee table. It looked like she had interrupted Tiago at cleaning his guns.

Headline News was playing on the television. The logo at the bottom of the flat-screen said it was 5:00 A.M. “Five o’clock,” she muttered. “No wonder my body is still whimpering. I’m allergic to early mornings, but I couldn’t stay in bed any longer.”

Tiago approached with two steaming coffee mugs. “What a crabby little monkey you are,” he said as he handed her a mug. “Are you always this way when you wake up?”

“I am when I wake up at 5:00 A.M.,” she told him. She buried her nose in her mug and inhaled the rich aroma, using her coffee as a way to avoid looking at him as he settled on the sofa beside her. “Have you slept at all?”

“No, I’ve been too busy,” he said.

She looked at him sidelong as she sipped the hot coffee. Busy with what? He was sitting so close she could smell his clean masculine scent and feel the warmth of his muscled denim-clad thigh. He seemed well rested enough, even relaxed, whereas she had to fight to keep from fidgeting.

She felt miserable, tied up in knots inside. She was affectionate by nature, a touchy-feely kind of chick who loved hugs and cuddling. She wanted to scoot closer and curl against his side, to soak up the comfort of his warmth and strength again, to lay her head on his shoulder and let him keep the world at bay.

She swallowed hard. Last night all her guards had dropped with a shattering crash. She had said things to him in the dark and had cried in his arms. Apparently he was fine with what happened, but now she didn’t know how to act. A craven part of her wanted to keep leaning on him, even though she knew it couldn’t last.

She bit her lips to keep them from trembling. They needed to talk. She needed to know when he would be leaving. She had to know how long she could rely on him and to brace herself for what came afterward. She opened her mouth to speak.

He beat her to it. He set his mug on the table between the gun parts and stood up. He told her, “Breakfast is going to be here in just a few minutes, but in the meantime, I have some things for you.”

She was caught with her mouth hanging open. “What?”

He gathered up the shopping bags by the wall and brought them over to her. She glanced at them, for the first time registering the department store labels. Nordstrom and Neiman Marcus.

He gave her a patient smile as he handed her a bag. “I said I have some things for you. The Dark Fae delegation isn’t being very cooperative.” He nodded to her. “Go ahead, have a look. If you don’t like any of it, it can always go back.”

Feeling like she was moving in slow motion, she set her coffee mug on the end table and pulled out the contents. When she had emptied it, he handed her another bag, until she had gone through everything. There were clothes and lingerie in cool jeweled tones that would complement her pale skin and black hair. There were also cosmetics in exactly the right shades, and scented toiletries, a pair of soft slippers and another pair of simple flat-heeled shoes. There were even some new-release paperbacks and magazines. A couple of the packages were gift wrapped.

She stared at him, big-eyed, the gift-wrapped packages in a pile on her lap. “You didn’t pick all this out,” she said. She didn’t say it as a question. He couldn’t have. She knew he would never leave her asleep, alone and defenseless. That would go against every protective Wyr instinct he had.

“Of course not,” he told her. “If it doesn’t blow up, cut up, or shoot something, I wouldn’t know what to pick. I sent someone. We used your things in the SUV and the T-shirts as size guidelines. I like this. The color suits you.” He fingered the soft material of a sapphire blue tunic top then cocked an eyebrow at her as he nodded to the packages in her lap. “Aren’t you going to open those?”

She looked down at the three packages she held in her hands, feeling as if he had sideswiped her. She took one and picked the taped ends apart. She pulled out a box of Neiman Marcus chocolates. She set it down, picked up another package and opened it. It was a small perfume bottle of Joy. The third box contained dangly earrings. Each earring had a moon of silver and several stars in different shades of blue that dangled at varying lengths.

Her mouth worked as she stared down at the presents in her lap. Long, hard brown fingers came under her chin and tilted her face up. Tiago’s expression had turned quizzical, searching. “If you don’t like anything, faerie, it can go back,” he repeated.

“I love it, I love all of it,” she said unsteadily. She moved away from his touch on the pretext of opening the box of chocolates. She took a bite out of one. It was too rich for her overempty stomach, and she put the rest of it back in its place.

His quizzical look deepened. “Then what’s wrong?”

She held on to the candy box with both hands. “We should talk about when you’re going to leave.”

Silence. Her senses were so attuned to his presence she felt when the relaxation left him and his body grew tense.

“I’m not leaving,” he said in a calm voice.

Her knuckles whitened. “Well, we both know you have to, at some point.”

“I know nothing of the sort,” he said. He picked up his coffee and drank it. His Power flared and filled the room, turning smoky and menacing as it wrapped around her.

She tried again. “Tiago, I need to make a plan in my head so I know w-what to expect and when.”

“I am not leaving,” he said again. While he never raised his voice, his hawklike face turned into a blade. “Deal with it.”

“That isn’t helping—” she said.

He stood and stalked out of the room. She stared after him, disoriented. Then she heard someone start to knock on the suite door. Tiago opened it.

It was the hotel manager, Hughes. “I just wanted to let you know, the representative from the Elder tribunal has arrived and has taken over one of the floors between her highness and the Dark Fae delegation.” He wrung his hands.

Tiago’s gaze narrowed on the nervous movement of Hughes’s hands. “Which Councillor did the tribunal send?” he demanded.

Hughes said, “The one from San Francisco. The next floor up has been taken over by Vampyres.”