Page 84 of A Bloom in Winter

The King’s black brows lowered behind his wraparounds, but he continued with his lunch, taking a bite for himself. Sharing another with the dog.

Finally, he announced, “Whestmorel can wait until I finish this—and the only reason I’m seeing him is because I don’t wantmy receptionist to be in his presence when he throws a hissy fit. Has he deigned to give us a topic?”

“Nope. But I’m more than happy to go get one out of him.”

Wrath nodded. Then said, “Deena doesn’t need to see that, though. Tell her to go take a break first.”

“Of course.”

Like a lot of people who worked as part of Saxton’s staff, the female had come up out of Safe Place, the domestic violence treatment center run by Rhage’sshellan, Mary. Wrath was protective over everybody under this roof, but he was especially sensitive to Deena after learning her story.

He was like that. You came at him, he’d strike your jugular. You were a decent, hardworking person who needed help? There was nothing he wouldn’t do for you.

“Give me five minutes,” Wrath said, “and then you bring him in to me. And have Qhuinn with you. Saxton, too. I want witnesses in addition to our cameras.”

“You don’t want me to get the subject to you first?”

“No. You and I both know what this is really about—so I don’t need to hear it.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

Tohr bowed, even though the King couldn’t see him, and then he left by the door the civilians were brought in through.

The front of the house, so to speak, was totally different than the security-focused core: The hallways that formed the loop the males and females were processed through were well lit and cheerful, with a cottage theme. Oil paintings of landscapes and still lifes of fruits and flowers and dogs from the nineteenth century, alternated with needlepoint samplers from the same period. Underfoot, woven rugs in red and black covered honey-colored pine floors, and the scents of fresh-cooked baked goods as always suffused the air.

Unlike the other Audience House, back decades ago, which had been like a museum—no offense to Darius’s incredible sense of style—they’d deliberately designed this one to be welcoming, homey, and relaxed. Like visitors were just going to theirgrandmahmen’s from the Old Country.

And it works to bring down the tension, he thought as he walked into the receptionist’s room.

Most of the time.

The male who was standing in the center of the waiting area had an expression on his face like he was liable to catch a disease if he sat down in any of the comfy-cozies. Talk about central casting. In his three-piece dark suit, his ascot, and those shiny wingtips, Whestmorel was a cross between an English dandy and a Wall Street money manager. Which was the new aristocracy, wasn’t it. They were always trying to thread that needle, desperate to be what their predecessors had actually been: Exclusive by virtue of their bloodlines.

When all they could flex were bank accounts and stock portfolios.

And really, that wasn’t saying much.

“Well,” Whestmorel said. Then he made a show of kicking up his wrist and checking his gold watch.

Tohr turned his back on the guy. Behind her desk, Deena was sitting up straight in her chair, her worried eyes clinging to Tohr.

He smiled gently at her. “Would you be willing to refresh the tray? I’d be very grateful.”

She bolted to her feet. “Yes, of course.”

Even though it wasn’t her job—not that she wouldn’t do anything that was asked of her—she hightailed it around the aristocrat, picked up the perfectly fresh supply of tea sandwiches, and disappeared out into the hall.

“So is Wrath coming in?”

Tohr frowned. And then stepped into the male. “No, you’re going to go see him. In about five minutes.”

Whestmorel’s eyes narrowed. “This is important.”

“You seem to think so. You want to tell me what this is about?”

“I didn’t come to see you.”

“Well, this is going to be a problem.” Tohr glanced over and made sure the door Deena had left out of was fully closed. “No one gets in to Wrath without telling me what they’re looking for.”

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