Page 95 of Shattered Jewel

Axe casually stirs his coffee with a silver spoon, the liquid swirling in hypnotic circles without looking down—just at me, like he’s dissecting my embarrassed thoughts and finds them amusing.

Cav doesn’t touch his coffee.

My attention darts to Sasha again, who seems utterly at ease with these men who are anything but college boys.

My heart jumps into my throat as a realization nearly makes me choke on burning hot coffee.

Sasha’s reaction to them is important to me, because I am attached to these men.

What we share isn’t merely physical anymore. Emotionally, too. Every smirk they share, every word, the way they drink their coffee, all of it resonates with me, strengthening my bond with them.

Fucking hell.

“You okay, El?”

Sasha’s question drags me from my sex-addled thoughts—because that’s what it has to be, some sort of post-coital bliss making me feel this way about them. I need to refocus and remind myself of the real reason I’m here. It’s not to get tangled in the sheets with these four undomesticated men, although that’s an unexpected bonus. It’s to find out what happened to my brother and why he was so certain the Sovereigns want to involve me in their final ritual.

I answer, “Yep, I’m totally fine,” before plopping into my seat and hiding as much of my reddened face as I can behind my cup.

“What’s on the agenda today?” she asks. “Because after all this, I doubt we’re studying for mid-terms.”

I drum my fingers along the paper cup, still nursing my coffee. “I need to visit Clover Callahan.”

A large, dark, masculine cloud descends upon the room.

Wilder leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “You want to parlay with a Vulture?”

“Uh, last I checked, she was a freshman,” Sasha says.

I clench my fists in my lap under the table. “Clover is one of the few people who might have some insight into Sarah Anderton’s history. My history.”

A foreboding tremor quakes along Wilder’s jawline. Axe just maintains his unsettling calmness, studying me with his harrowing stare. But it’s Cav who speaks, his words every bit as icy as the glacier chips he’s housing for eyes. “That woman is dangerous.”

“I know,” I say, meeting his cool survey without flinching. “But I can handle her.”

Wilder scoffs loudly at that. “You can barely handle us.”

Something inside me snaps at that.

Standing abruptly, I slam my palms onto the table, making Sasha jump in her seat. “What you mean is that I’ve dealt with far worse than Clover Callahan.”

The hinges of Wilder’s resolve audibly creak as he leans forward, muscles tensing under his tight, black shirt. “You don’t know what you’re walking into. The Vultures have been bred like us, meaning they will protect their woman if you so much as exhale too close to her face.”

“I’m not asking for permission.” I stare him down.

A thick silence engulfs the room, so complete that you can hear the crinkling of the paper cups from their combined grips. Cav is the first to break it, the sharp angles of his face becoming razor-edged.

“You may be a Wraithwood, but that doesn’t make you immune to their treachery.”

Cav’s voice is barely controlled, a stark contrast to his typically calm demeanor.

Probably because he’s been the closest to the Vultures, worked with them even, and understands them the best.

I dive into the bottomless depths of his stare. “I never claimed to be invincible.”

“You have a dangerous habit of underestimating your enemies.”

“And you,” I fire back, “mistake scars for invincibility.”

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