The Problem with Promises (41 page)

“You dropped it,
ma chère.
”

The Spaniard observed, “This is exactly why we don’t have mates testify on behalf of their men.”

No, no. I gave it a shake. “There’s a spreadsheet on it. A really—”

“Shall we vote?” said the Russian.

“It’s their client list!” I shouted. Well, I’d meant it to come out as a shout, but I was anxious, and pissed. And I’m female. It came off as an earsplitting shriek, that clearly hurt at least one listener’s ears because someone whined in protest.

Were hearing.

While I had their attention, I went straight into the good stuff. “Their clients were culled from the NAW’s kill list. All the information is there, including payment history and credit card details. Neither Trowbridge nor I have access to the NAW’s kill list,” I said, mentally thinking,
Ta-dah!
“Only Knox and Whitlock would.”

Whitlock picked up his glass. “You’ve got your facts wrong there. I’ve never accessed the kill list either.”

Crap.

“Check the user logs,” he said with a hard smile. “I’ve never logged in to the database. Not once.” He wrinkled his nose to emphasize his overall distaste. “Not much of a fan of halflings. Let them die, that’s what I say.”

St. Silas considered Whitlock, then the tablet. “Perhaps our flares drained it. All the electricity…”

“That could be it,” I said, working to infuse some confidence in my tone.

“Louis, have you a charger?” asked St. Silas. “It would be good to see the video.”

“She’s just jerking your chain. Wasting time.” Whitlock crossed his leg and balanced his glass on his calf. “Gentlemen, everything she’s said so far has just reinforced what I told you before.” He jerked his chin in my direction. “Knox saw an opportunity when he met this one. The last of the Fae. Young and impressionable. Hungry for attention. But she couldn’t open the portal with her amulet so he teamed her up with Trowbridge. She needed Bridge’s amulet to reopen the portals.”

Ralph took exception to that. He glowed, white hot.

Whitlock shook his head. “We’ve all heard what she did to get it. Killing the old Alpha of Creemore. Sacrificing her aunt. Mating with Trowbridge. That’s all common knowledge. And she’s never denied that she pushed him into the gate.” He lifted the glass and swirled the ice. “My mate’s healing in Merenwyn,” he mimicked. “Yeah, right. Trowbridge needed a cover while he spent time with the Fae.”

I let go of my mate’s jeans. I stepped in front of him, Merry shining on my chest. “Trowbridge forbade me to send him to Merenwyn. I waited until he was unconscious and sent him there against his wishes. He never traded with the Fae. He never wanted to go to their realm.”

“Blah, blah, blah,” said Whitlock. “If that was true, he’d have been back in a couple of hours. Instead, he spent six months, living the good life, making trade agreements with his new buddies—”

“He was held captive by the Fae,” I shouted. “He loathes them!”

Silence, of the particularly piercing kind, followed that announcement.

The Spaniard’s pitch was soft. “Then why did he mate with you?”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Because I tricked him—that was the real answer. Because I didn’t give him a chance to figure out who he was saying the words to—that was another truth. Because I’d have done anything to have kept him living.

Anything.

I’d stolen him from death’s claws. Because I’d wanted his life woven into mine. His love wrapped around me. That’s what I’d hungered for. Though that night, I hadn’t allowed myself to dwell on what he’d wanted.

Since then, I couldn’t seem to stop thinking about how all the things he’d wanted—a pack, recognition, his own lands—they’d all been dangled in front of him, then jerked away.
You want this? You can’t have it.

Death. Fate. Karma. One or all of those entities hadn’t forgotten my theft. They kept coming at us. From the back, from the front, from the side.
Has it been worth it, Trowbridge? I know you love me. I’ve felt it in your touch. But have I been worth it?
I kept my gaze fixed on Whitlock as whatever warmth I’d had drained out of me. Thus, I sensed, rather than saw, Trowbridge turn his head to stare at me.

Don’t look into his eyes. You may not want to read the answer waiting there.

His scent spiced. But I still wouldn’t look at him.

So my mate spoke to me and to them, the only way he could.

Through touch.

Robson Trowbridge stepped closer, sliding an arm around my waist, drawing me back so that my hip rested against the juncture of his thighs. My body was stiff, telegraphing the insecurities that never left me. With a soft tut, he nudged the back of my knee with his. I fell against him, my head finding that place I’d started thinking of as another “mine”—that hard and welcome spot above the rise of his pectorals but below his collarbone.

Up came his other arm, to circle my shoulders, and to sweep aside the neck of my shirt. It laid bare to their gaze the base of my neck where there should been a permanent mark of the mate bond.

There was no silver half-moon scar.

Just my Fae skin. Smooth and pale.

Outwardly? I think I turned to stone. While inside? Mortal-me flinched, and railed, and cried too. For in that instant, My One True Thing had laid me more naked to the wolves than if he’d stripped the shirt off my back and slipped the jeans off my hips.

My Were stiffened inside me.

How could you? Before them?

The muscled arm around my waist tightened in reproof. Then Trowbridge slowly bent his head—warm breath on skin turned suddenly cold—and lowered his mouth to the sacred place, the hollow where mates leave marks and scars are formed. A swipe of his tongue sent a shiver along my spine.

Over the place he’d once toothed, he bit down. Not hard enough to break my flesh, but with enough pressure to make me take in a quick breath. A moment—he surely held his teeth in that gentle nip for no longer than one perfect moment.

Sometimes moments are all you need.

Heart of my heart. Mate for all my years. I offer you my life.

He turned the pantomime of mate-bite into the softest kiss. A gentle one, a visual demonstration to even the thickest, blindest, most doubting wolf that I was loved. I was precious. I was wanted.

I was his.

Tears blurred my eyes when Trowbridge lifted his chin. His jaw grazed mine—skin warming with the soft scrape of his stubble—then it found its customary place at my brow. He draped his heavy arm over the front of me, covering up the skin that belonged to both him and me.

Together then. We’ll face it together.

My mate’s final summation on the mate-bond topic was directed to Whitlock and executed with typical Trowbridge efficiency. Just one quick upward jerk of his jaw—a “see that?” and “screw you” all rolled into one.

No one can deliver a challenge as insolently as my Trowbridge.

I damn near cried when his callused palm flattened to rest protectively (and yes, perhaps possessively too) over the place he’d laid his mark.

I am loved.

And I am tired. Of some wolves and some men. Of doubts and fears. Of yo-yo destinies and taunting futures.

“Let me cut to the chase,” I said. “I can give you the Safe Passage and the Gatekeeper.” Amazing how a big honking dollop of self-confidence can clear your mind. Suddenly, I wasn’t the game novice, stunned into silence by the complexity of the chess board. I was the Chess Master.

“The Gatekeeper will answer,” I said. “We have never met and I will be a stranger to her.” My lover’s arm was a solid band of steel as I pointed to liar-liar-pants-on-fire. “But she’s met Whitlock. She’s eaten pie with him. Let St. Silas read her face when she sees him. Let your truth sensor ask the Gatekeeper who she traded with. Trowbridge or Whitlock?”

Whitlock’s flare was the car behind you on the highway. The one driven by the guy who used his high beams without prejudice.

It blinded me. So, I didn’t have a chance to see him charge, blade drawn. If I had? I might have flinched or stiffened up. Any of those reactions would have made it harder for Trowbridge to toss me aside in time to face Whitlock’s knife.

Lucky me. I didn’t have time to react.

Whitlock went into a crouch, then he slashed at Trowbridge. A foolish move. A long swipe when he should have jabbed, rabbit-punch fast.

But he used the knife like a man accustomed to guns.

He’d never lived in a world where weapons were the rock by your hand and the sand by your feet. I’d imagine the only time he’d ever really fought was in his wolf form. Perhaps that’s why he wasted so much time circling Trowbridge.

My guy didn’t circle.

He didn’t even turn his body. He just looked over his shoulder.

Whitlock lunged. My mate feinted to the right, then flowed right back toward Whitlock. So smoothly, so fluidly was his reaction. And then, with a thud, and smack, Whitlock was down, his neck pinned under Trowbridge’s knee.

Kill him. Slowly.

St. Silas rapped out a string of French. Mathieu and Louis rushed in. Mathieu to press his gun under Trowbridge’s jaw, Louis to position his above Whitlock’s ear.

“You cannot kill him.” St. Silas.

“Watch me,” replied Trowbridge, indifferent to the gag rule.

“No, my friend.”

“He’s guilty! You can see he’s guilty!” shouted Trowbridge.

“Yes, I can see and smell his guilt,” murmured the Quebec Alpha. “But we have—”

Trowbridge snarled. “Don’t you tell me you have some fucking protocol.”

“Bridge. Your mate has stood for you. She must stand for you now.” St. Silas exhaled, a man brought to a place he didn’t want to be. “Miss Peacock, it is you who must mete out the final punishment. Your mate must stand back and allow you to finish this.”

Yes.

“Tink?”

“I need to do this,” I said, gazing at Whitlock.

“Stand down, Bridge,” murmured St. Silas.

He did, reluctance and hurt for me written on his expression.

Louis snagged a chair, and positioned it onto the plastic. Whitlock was forced into it. Mathieu helped hold the leader of the NAW in place, while zip ties were used to secure his hands to the armrests. Whitlock began to protest but his cry was smothered by a hand over his mouth, and then that temporary gag was replaced by a length of duct tape.

Plastic crackled as St. Silas took up a position behind the chair. He placed an arm around Whitlock’s throat, and positioned his hand so that it was over his head.

A choke hold.

Silence in the room, as I went to the table. I stared at Whitlock’s knife. Picked it up. Felt its weight. Knew that once I finished using it, my soul and my hand would always remember the feel of the wooden handle, the heft of the knife.

“Nice balance,” I said.

“St. Silas,” said Trowbridge in a low voice. “Let me do it for her.”

Afraid that it will change me forever? I am changed. Oh, Trowbridge, I already am.

“No, my friend,” replied the Quebec wolf. “She must see it to the end.”

“Don’t fret, Trowbridge,” I said, wishing that I was numb. “I can do this. I’m getting good at killing.”

Though it was easier when the victim fought back. When he wasn’t tied. When he was a direct threat to me and mine. This revenge? It was as cold as the knife’s blade.

But it didn’t sicken me.

Five steps to Whitlock. That’s all it took.

I bent so that we were eyeball to eyeball. Then I said, “This is for Harry.” I plunged the knife into his belly. Felt it slide in smoothly. Blood gushed. Not a neat kill.

Anguish in Whitlock’s eyes.

I said, so softly, “And this is for Brenda.”

And then I turned the knife in his belly, at the exact moment that St. Silas snapped his neck.

Now, I’m a multiple murderer. May Karma be kind.

*   *   *

Back on the highway again. Driving northward on the 400—a roadway that would from this point on be forever subtitled in my thoughts as Hedi’s Highway to Hell. St. Silas was at the wheel of his rental. I sat beside him. We were alone in the sedan. That was a bit of an insult—I was after all the Fae with magic at her hands. Shouldn’t St. Silas have entertained the slightest qualm that I might turn on him? Summon up the Fae in me and choke him with my magic?

Evidently not, because he knew, as I did, that my mate was in back of that van behind us. And that vehicle was loaded with two guards, one who was clearly motivated to prove that his indiscretion in the hall had been a blip. Louis had been unnecessarily rough with Trowbridge, slamming him into a couple of walls along the short path from the garage elevator to the van.

There seemed to be a direct correlation between how much I pissed someone off and how many bruises Trowbridge accumulated.

St. Silas drove well, his attention split between the road and his thoughts. We’d traveled for an hour, with not a word spoken between us. I was Marie Antoinette again. Sitting in my cart, traveling to the guillotine.

Whitlock’s death hadn’t led to a chorus of “Hail Robson Trowbridge and his Consort, the Fabulous Hedi Peacock.” What had erupted after that …
oh Goddess
 … those men would go down with their cruise ship, their lifeboat still attached to the davits, arguing over who manned the oars and who took the tiller.

Immediately following my dispatch of Whitlock, the Spaniard had aligned himself with the Russian, both voicing their original opinion that in the bigger scheme of threats, it mattered little who really traded sun potion. Of greater concern was the fact that the Alpha of Creemore’s consort was a Fae.

Who could open portals.

Yeah, there’s some irony there.

Too late to tell them I’d never succeeded in summoning one. Too late to back up. Hadn’t I just stood there so proudly, so confidently, and told them that I could? I’d radiated confidence, hadn’t I? Even the guards had read it on my face. I knew I would succeed in summoning a portal. I had the coin in my pocket, hadn’t I? And MOTT’s arm draped around me, right?

I could fucking jump tall buildings with one leap.