Page 20 of Fate Promised

What Kyril didn’t know, and the reason Juri knew Hazel wasn’t a threat, was that Briony met with Hazel regularly. And Hans allowed it. During the first few visits, Juri was there, hiding nearby in the trees while Hans bound the spellcaster’s hands and wouldn’t let her within arm’s length of Briony. Hazel never complained, sitting and talking to Briony for hours. She’d brought Briony things to help her during her pregnancy, and the two became friends. If Hans let his mate near Hazel after everything that happened, then Hazel was okay.

He gestured toward Triska’s cottage. “I’m here in case Hoyt shows up again. I want you to return to my mother’s house.” They’d spent the last hour visiting with her.

Kyril crossed his arms. “You’re leaving me with your brothers?”

“Don’t show any weakness, and you’ll be all right.”

Kyril sighed. “I’m a vulk, I have no weakness, but I don’t know how to talk to young ones.” His shoulders lowered a fraction. “Your mother is a good cook, though.”

“Howl if you need help.”

Kyril turned his head. “With your brothers or if the necromancers show up?”

“Either.” Juri scanned Triska’s cottage. A flickering light shone in one window; the rest were dark.

The front door opened, and a sliver of buttery light illuminated the front walk. Triska peeked her head out. “Hi.” She gazed out at the road. “Does the grumpy one want dinner too?”

His heart thumped. Her hair fell over her shoulders in gentle waves, and her eyes seemed to glow in the shadows. “No, he just left.” No way was he letting Kyril intrude on time with Triska.

“What language were you speaking?”

He was already walking to the gate in her hedgerow before he answered. “Vulk. Our language.”

She leaned against the doorsill. “It’s pretty.” She opened the door wider. “Are you ready to eat?”

“Of course.” His mother had fed him, but he considered that only a pre-supper snack.

The path to the front door led through a modest front yard with a neglected garden overrun by beach roses. When Old Mags lived here, she made jam from their plums. When he’d done chores in exchange for pocket money, she’d spread the jam on crackers for him. Bit stingy with the amount of jam, though.

Despite the overgrown look of the rest of the garden, someone had perfectly trimmed the hedges. “Nice shrubbery,” he said.

Even with her face in shadow, he saw her brows rise. “Uh, thank you? After all this time, you’re finally back and commenting on my shrubs?”

“A good shrub is a good shrub.”

“That’s all on account of my neighbor.”

At the front door, he opened his palms. “I don’t come bearing any gifts. I should have nipped into the tavern or one of the shops and—” What was he saying? He couldn’t pop into the tavern, he’d startle everyone in there off their stools, and how was he supposed to pay for anything? The vulk had currency, they often found gold while digging out their dens and could convert it to obols, but he didn’t have any with him.

Triska moved out of the way as he entered, but he still had to brush against her, and his pulse raced. The sweet scent of blackthorn blossom filled the air.

He inhaled deeply, and his blood heated. He wanted to bury his nose in the crook of her neck. Lick his way to the hollow at the base of her throat, then keep going. Need punched through him, hot and ready. He forgot about everything else. All he wanted was to close the distance between them. Run the pad of one finger up her jaw to see if her skin was as soft as it looked.

Maybe it was a bad idea to be in her home with her.

He tore his gaze from Triska’s face and took the rest of her in. She stood barefoot, with loose breeches skimming the tops of her feet. Tiny, delicate feet. The soft wool of her breeches matched the shirt stretched over her breasts, showing off their perfect shape. His mouth went dry.

“What would a vulk bring as a present?” Was her voice huskier? She hadn’t stopped staring at his face as if trying to memorize it. Or see the human he’d once been.

“Dunno about other vulk, but I’d bring you something sweet.” His gaze dropped to her mouth. Yes, something decadent she’d lick off her lips. Her lips parted as if she’d read his thoughts.

Perhaps it was best not to stare at Triska’s mouth. He turned and surveyed her home instead. He’d entered through a small mudroom that opened into a galley-style kitchen with a living room off to the right. Triska had a long yellow sofa with scrolled armrests tucked up near her fireplace. Two bookcases stood next to it, their shelves not filled with books, but with illustrated booklets called the Quarter Obol Dreadfuls.

Juri walked over to the bookcase, his feet sinking into a shaggy sheepskin rug. “I thought you might still read these.” One thing bonding them together as kids was how much they both loved stories. He pulled one from the top shelf and thumbed through it. It was a tale of a swashbuckling pirate robbing the rich. When they were kids, they read these together each month when they came, thumbing them so often the corners of the pages grew worn and torn.

Triska joined him and plucked it from his hand. “Of course. They’re marvelous stories.” She reached up on tiptoe to shelve it back into place, not quite able to reach.

He gently slipped it from her fingers. “I’ll do it.”

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