Page 121 of Within the Veil

I ignore the thrill at his use of, 'Love,' and cringe as food zooms around the kitchen while Grayson relabels everything for the tenth time in as many minutes. Magic is entertaining.

"You know, you guys don't have to reorganize the entire kitchen and bedrooms," I chime in, amusement tinting my voice. "Zane and King will still be here to help me out."

Grayson stops and grins, the magical Sharpies continuing their dutiful job as he looks at me. Hunter's foot hovers above the next step, from where he stands at the staircase, a freshly laundered basket full of baby clothes in his arms, and turns to look at me. "We know, Angel," Grayson says, softly. "But when we return, you'll likely be on the cusp of giving birth. We know you are more than capable, but at least we would have done what we could."

"Grayson is right, Sweetheart," Hunter sighs, "We don't want to miss preparing the nursery or folding the baby's clothes. We're going to miss enough as it is, and everything is moving so fucking quickly."

"You've folded the baby clothes several times over, babe," I remind him gently, my heart becoming a giant puddle of goo at their words.

"Ryder ordered more," they say at the same time.

"Your damn right I did. They need several outfits for their hourly photoshoots," Ryder says brightly.

"Hourly? Do you plan to wake up my magical little beasts from naps to take pictures?" I ask.

"The fuck he is," Zane growls from somewhere in the house.

"You'll thank me when you wake up one morning, two days after they're born, and they are suddenly toddlers," Ryder argues.

Grayson moves forward and tips my chin up, his gaze locks onto mine, earnest and intense. "Time is finite, Angel. We need this," he adds softly, leaning in and pressing his lips softly to mine.

I can't even tease him when he says shit like that. Before I can respond my eyes shift toward Oberon, who faedes into the room, his face marred by a frown.

"What is it?" I ask, hesitantly, half expecting him to say there is a possessed, opossum oracle in the damn forest.

"We have incoming," he says, his voice heavy with some unspoken concern.

"Incoming? What do you mean?" I'm instantly alert.

Before I can fully process the situation, all my mates--as well as Jensi, and Luca--materialize in the living room. Then, like a nightmarish vision, a Fae appears before us.

He's dressed entirely in leather, hunter-green fabric, much like the ones Ryder has us all wear, stretched over a physique that radiates...death. He doesn't do anything but stand in place, his eyes sweeping the room, but even those small movements display rippling muscles that are coiled under his skin like pythons, each subtle shift, imbued with a sense of barely restrained power. While he is freakishly tall, he's not much taller than my own men, but with the power pouring from his every pore, he seems even bigger, daunting somehow. Looking up from my man-meat, lap perch, I follow the trail of blood that covers his feet and entire body all the way up to the crown of his head. I'm sure his long, meticulously braided hair would be the same brilliant white as all other Fae if it weren't steeped in blood. I'm not sure what his beauty routine entails, but other than the axe-murderer look he is clearly going for, it works for him.

I hold his gaze--abyssal pools, that swallow the light, except considering they were a swirling grey in color, the talent is quite a feat-- and push myself up to my feet, not comfortable sitting down when he is clearly trying to be the baddest mother-faeker here. And since I already hold that title, he's got me fucked up.

I let my power push itself, testing his and recognizing the power signature that is so uniquely Oberon that my magic steps back, as if in approval, and settles down. Granted, considering Oberon's calmness, it's obvious whoever this hunk of death was, there is nothing to concern myself with. Well, other than whatever fuckery he is going to bring to the rest of my day.

Dropping down to one knee, he places one blood-soaked hand over his heart. "With your grace, Queen Rhiona of Fhaell," his lips barely move but part just enough to reveal razor-sharp, pointed teeth, as he forms each word with slow, deliberate care, like a menacing lullaby. Nicely done.

I grit my teeth and try to be diplomatic when I just want to shank Oberon with a fucking tree vine, "Rise, your words carry weight here. Speak freely."

He stands smoothly, turning to grip Oberon's arm, and they mumble some credence about speed, efficiency, brutality, and brotherhood, and I let them finish.

"Okay, before you start greeting everyone. People, scary man. Scary man, People." I wave my hand, ignoring everyone's chuckle, and look at Oberon, "Now, explain. And do better than 'we have an incoming,'" I deepen my voice and add a slight lilt. "And keep this explanation to an acceptable length and not a soliloquy of your greatness. I know damn well, I have an airtight Veil over this camp. Also," I add. "Why the hell doesn't he have a scent? Or rather why does he have so many? It's confusing."

Everyone has a magical scent or imprint, I should at least be able to freaking mark him by scent.

The newcomer looks between Oberon and me, curiously. Yes, your King is my fucking mate, I can talk shit. No one else can.

A pained expression flashes across Oberon's face, "Scent-wise if you sense and scent a whisperer everywhere, he is nowhere. It is part of my training, manipulating scents. For the other questions, centuries ago, this camp was infused with my blood and, in turn, anyone who is connected to me by sacred blood vow. This ensures my most trusted Whisperers can be here when needed."

I scoff, "All of your Whisperers are your 'most trusted,' or else they would be dead. Wait..." I narrow my eyes, ignoring the smug look on his face, "how many are we talking here?"

"A few thousand," he says serenely.

I growl, " How. Many. Oh-bre-awhn," I sound out his name with a hiss, moving forward to jab at his massive chest and look all the way up to his amused, slightly alarmed, icy blue stare. He should be very alarmed. I let him have his air and mystery; now I want some fucking accurate numbers.

"Seven thousand four hundred and fifty-six. That includes King, but not those in training. And to answer your question, I only have two men training, and they are standing right behind you." He says, nonchalantly.

---