Page 7 of Love At First Roar
She finished her scone and found herself smiling. Her usual sunshine demeanor seemed to suddenly not feel as if it had to be dormant.
Miriam cleared her throat with gentle authority. “Council session will convene at ten. Gives you two hours to freshen up and, Callum, to file your incident report.”
He nodded. “I briefed them last night, but the written one is almost done.” He shot her a glance. “We’ll be there.”
“We?” Cora asked.
“I’m your escort. Council’s orders.”
4
CALLUM
Callum hated council days. Always had.
He stood on the outside of the Council Glade, arms crossed tight across his chest, jaw clenched. The spring morning filtered through the canopy in dusty streaks, dappling the moss with gold. Wind rustled the leaves overhead, but the trees were still listening. They always did when the council met. Old magic hummed underfoot.
He could feel it. Not the usual sleepy pulse of the Veil doing its job, either. This felt like tension. Like something watching, waiting, curled just below the surface.
And it had started the second that fae woman stumbled out of nowhere.
He glanced over his shoulder.
Cora stood beside Miriam on the carved stepping stones. Pale green fabric hugged her figure like it had been stitched just for her, the kind of shade that made her skin glow and her hair look like moonlight caught in motion. She had even braided fresh ivy into it. The damn forest had probably offered it willingly.
Callum scowled and faced forward again.
Of course she’d made friends with the trees. Of course she smelled like lilacs and sugar and trouble.
He didn’t trust it. Not one bit.
Behind him, footfalls crunched soft on the moss. A familiar voice broke the quiet.
“You know, if you keep glowering like that, your face is gonna stay that way.”
Callum turned his head slowly. Maeve leaned against one of the twisted stone columns that marked the Glade entrance, her short black hair tucked behind one ear, arms folded to mirror his.
She wore her usual leather vest and jeans, and the amused smirk that had driven him nuts since they were cubs.
“Still got your sarcasm holstered,” he muttered. “Must be a good morning.”
“Oh, it’s great. Got a fresh bottle of hawthorn mead chilling back at the bar. Might even share it if you stop scowling.”
“I’m not scowling.”
Maeve tilted her head. “You always scowl when you’re nervous.”
“I’m not nervous,” he said.
She grinned. “Sure you’re not.”
Cora reached the Glade’s center, nodding politely to the other seated council members. She moved like sunlight trickling over water, all softness and curiosity. Not once did she seem intimidated. Not by the weight of magic in the air or the veiled stares of the council or the way Callum stood like a mountain with arms crossed like a drawbridge.
That should’ve annoyed him more than it did.
“Cora Thorne,” Varric’s voice boomed through the Glade like distant thunder. “Step forward.”
The wolf elder sat on a stone carved into the shape of a stag’s skull, long silver braids draped over his shoulders like cords ofmoonlight. His eyes, the color of rainclouds, tracked her every movement. When she stepped up, he lifted a hand.
