“If that’s not the stupidest question of the year, I’m not sure what is.”
She grinned. “Hey, it was only yesterday that you actually said no to a brownie.”
“Because it was eight in the morning and I had a hangover.”
“Serves you right for partying all night.”
“It wasn’t all night.”
Just most of it. It wasn’t every day your boyfriend turned thirty, after all, and it had to be celebrated in style. So I’d booked us a luxurious room and an eight-course dining experience with never-ending champagne at a five-star hotel down in Melbourne. To say it was a glorious evening would be another of those understatements.
Of course, there was a “proper” party this weekend with all his friends and family, but it was being held within the grounds of the O’Connor compound. I wasn’t a werewolf, so I definitely wasn’t on the invite list—which was no doubt the plan when his bitch of a mother had presented it as a fait accompli two weeks ago, just as I’d been getting out of hospital. I suspected she’d hoped I’d be so upset that I’d split with him but, in reality, it was just another indication that she really didn’t know me—or even her son—all that well. The more she tried to pry us apart, the closer we became.
“Speaking of newly ancient boyfriends,” Belle said, reaching for another mug. “Yours is just about to shove his key in the door.”
I frowned and glanced at the clock. It was just gone six. “He was supposed to be working until eight.”
“Maybe he decided to leave early so he could rush you home and have his wicked way with you.”
Home now being his house in Argyle. We’d moved most of my stuff there a few days after I’d gotten out of hospital, and he’d spent the rest of that week cosseting me.
I rather liked being cosseted.
“A girl can only hope.” I rose and headed for the door, then basically threw myself into his muscular arms the minute he stepped through.
He caught me with a grunt, kissed me thoroughly, and then said, with a wicked twinkle in his blue eyes, “Now that is a welcome a man can get used to.”
“I wouldn’t,” Belle said. “I mean, you’re old now. All that excitement and passion can’t be good for your heart.”
“I’ll remind you of that when you turn thirty.”
His voice was dry, and she laughed. “Which is a good year off yet. Plenty of time to get some action in before the senile years set in.”
“Senility isn’t generally a problem werewolves face, thank God.” He pulled out the chair next to mine and sat down, his nostrils flaring lightly. “That drink is more whiskey than hot chocolate. Any reason why?”
I wrinkled my nose. “We just had a visit from the high council’s chief investigator.”
“I’m guessing that would be the witch I just saw leaving, then?”
“Deliciously hot witch would be a more correct term,” I said.
He raised an eyebrow. “I have competition?”
The smile playing around his lips was warm and confident. A man who knew exactly where he stood in my affections.
“If you don’t play your cards right, yes. Especially when he wears a pair of jeans almost as well as you.”
“I’m relieved by the modifier.” He thanked Belle as she placed a coffee and a plate of brownies in front of him. “What did he want?”
“He’s here to interview witnesses and follow up on the bombing. I dare say he’ll probably want to speak to you at some point.”
“I dare say.” He didn’t look overly concerned by the prospect, and with good reason. Werewolf reservations were self-governing and self-policing. Had Aiden taken an active part in delivering Clayton to Maelle, there might have been problems, but he hadn’t even known about it. He’d been too busy dealing with the bloody mess left behind at Émigré by Clayton’s bomber. “Though the witch council is in full receipt of all our reports to date.”
“The council apparently does not want to rely on the conclusions of others.” Belle returned with her drink and two cakes—black forest for me, and a banana bread cheesecake for her—and sat down. “We suggested it’s because they want to twist the facts to suit their already drawn conclusions, but Sam denied it.”
Aiden raised his eyebrows again. “Sam?”
She nodded. “He was very quick to get on first-name terms with our girl here. I suspect he was more intent on flirting than fact finding.”
“Suspect? You didn’t read his mind?” Aiden’s expression was offended, though his blue eyes twinkled. “And why not, when you have no compunction raiding my mind willy-nilly?”
“Sadly, he was protected against telepathic invasion.”
“So was Monty when he first arrived here, but that didn’t stop you.”
She grinned. “The effort wasn’t worth it this time. He was being very upfront with his intentions.”
“He basically said,” I added, just in case Aiden was wondering if those intentions were more sexual in nature, “that Clayton’s family is putting pressure on the council to drop the investigation. They want the coroner’s ‘death by unknown supernatural entity’ verdict to stand as the overall official verdict.”
“Which would please Maelle no end.” He picked up his coffee and took a drink, his gaze on mine. We’d already had “the conversation”—the one about me not being open and honest about information he had a right to know—and he hadn’t been too pleased by my response that it hadn’t been my damn place to tell him about Maelle but rather the werewolf council’s. The same council on which his father was a major player. “Have you heard from her?”
I frowned. “Why on earth would I?”
He shrugged. “You seem to be on better terms with her than most.”
“She owed me a favor, and that favor is now repaid. I really don’t expect to hear from her again.” And if I put that statement out there often enough, maybe the universe would take note. “I don’t think the reservation has seen the last of her, though. She’s put too much time and effort into Émigré to walk away.”
He grimaced. “I can’t say I’d be unhappy if she did.”
“She kept to her word, Aiden. She hasn’t killed within the reservation.”
“She has dined, though.”
“Only on the willing, just as she promised.”
He studied me for a moment. “Why are you defending her?”
I shrugged. “I’m just stating facts. Trust me, I’d be over the moon if we have seen the last of her and Roger.”
“I gather he’s her thrall?”
I nodded. A thrall was a human who—via a magical ceremony in which he or she shared a piece of the vampire’s flesh—was given eternal life in return for eternal service. Roger wasn’t dead; he’d simply been forced into a period of stasis. Basically, he’d been so badly injured that he’d placed himself into a coma to help his body heal and recover. I did sometimes wonder if part of his problem had been Maelle draining his strength in order to maintain her own.