He crossed his arms. “Who will blame us?”

“The authorities.”

She was really wound up tight. It was kind of amusing. He decided to stab and see what happened.

“Is this paranoia recent or is this something you’ve had for a while?”

Elara stopped in midstep and spun toward him, the long skirt of her dress flaring.

“We are always blamed. I’m speaking from experience. Whenever anything weird happens, they come after us.”

“‘They’ won’t find out.”

Elara missed the sarcasm in his emphasis. “They will. They always do. We have to report it. You should’ve sent someone to report it the moment you found it.”

“Do you trust your people?”

“What?” She tilted her head, giving him a look at the fine line of her jaw all the way to her neck. He wondered what she looked like under the dress.

“Do your people report to the authorities on a regular basis, because I have to tell you, I wouldn’t tolerate that if I were you.”

“Hugh! You can’t possibly be this dense. No, my people don’t talk to outsiders.”

She’d used his name. Well, well. “Mine don’t either. So, who’s going to tell?”

“It will get out. It always does. Someone will come to check on them—"

“To check on three families of separatists living alone in the middle of the forest?”

Elara halted. “Separatists still trade, Hugh. They still need supplies.”

“Try to get it through your thick skull: they abandoned society, built a palisade in the middle of a dangerous forest, and got killed. It happens all the damn time and nobody ever makes any effort to investigate.”

“According to your own people, this time is different. You don’t even know what killed them.”

Hugh felt irritation rise. “I would know if I had access to a forensic mage. How is it that in all of your settlement there is not a single mage?”

Elara crossed her arms on her chest. “We have no need for mages. We have plenty of magic users who can do everything a mage can do but better.”

“So why don’t you take some of those fabled magic users and analyze the scene?”

“So when the forensic team does arrive from the sheriff’s office, they’ll find an empty settlement and our magic signature all over it? Brilliant. Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Leave this alone. If you stir that pot, your pal Skolnik will run back here with torches and pitchforks. Is that what you want?”

Elara narrowed her eyes. “You know what, never mind. I’ll take care of this.”

Hugh’s irritation boiled over into full-blown fury. His voice turned to ice. “You won’t.”

“Yes, I will.”

“I forbid it.”

“Good that I don’t need your permission.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Says who?”

“Says the contract we both signed. Or did you forget the part where I asked for autonomy on the safety-related decisions and you put in the provision that all of them have to be jointly approved by you and me? It cuts both ways, sweetheart.”

Her magic boiled just under her skin. Her eyes blazed. Didn’t like that, did you?

“Do it,” he dared. “Breach the contract. Give me an excuse for free rein.”

Elara’s hands curled into fists. Her cheeks flushed. She was so mad.

God, sex right now would be amazing. He would throw her on the bed and she would scream and kick and lash him with her magic. It would be fucking hot.

“I hate you,” she ground out.

“Right back at you, darling.” Hugh kissed the air.

Her face jerked. An ethereal growl rolled through the room, an echo of a distant snarl. Elara spun and within her he almost saw something else, hidden within silvery translucent veils of magic. She swept out of the room. The door slammed behind her, shaking the heavy wooden doorway.

Twice in one night. He’d have to replace the door if this continued.

Hugh poured himself another cup of water. For a few seconds, while she’d been in the room screaming at him, he’d felt alive. He lost it again and he could already feel the void drawing closer, but he’d tasted freedom in those fleeting moments and he wanted more.

Elara paced in her room. Traces of her magic slipped out of her, trailing her body. The gentle glow of custom fey lanterns bathed the room in a soothing buttery-yellow glow, but her temper needed a hell of a lot more than some ambient light to soothe itself.

That asshole.

That fucking bastard.

When she’d insisted on the joint decision provision, she was thinking of limiting his reach. At the time, it seemed like a perfectly reasonable choice.

Elara closed her eyes and whispered, projecting her voice. “Savannah.”

The echo of her power flew through the castle, finding its target. Savannah was on her way.

Elara wanted to march back into Hugh’s bedroom and crush him with her power until he groveled. To wipe that smug grin off his face.

She stopped and took a deep breath. Her magic swirled out and Hugh stood in her room, exactly as she remembered him, a perfect copy of the man, just slightly transparent when she looked at a fey lantern through him.

She circled him, examining the broad powerful shoulders, the sculpted arms, the flat stomach, the tree trunk legs… Built to crush all opposition. The man emanated a predatory confidence. If he said he would kill something, it would die. She was sure of it now.

A trail of faint scars marked his chest, no more than light lines across his left pectoral, over the heart, ribs, and side. She’d felt him heal his people. He had to be able to heal himself, or he would have a lot more scars.

What sort of damage was severe enough to resist his healing?

Food for thought.

Shapeshifters sometimes radiated a predatory power too. Theirs came from the natural sleekness of their lines, from the way they held themselves, ready to burst into action, never one hundred percent comfortable in either of their skins, always expecting an attack. Hugh had a different flavor. The shapeshifters were born into their power; he achieved his. His body was trained and honed, and the arrogance came from experience.

She looked into his blue eyes. There was something else there, in the eyes. A bone-deep weariness as if something gnawed on him, and no matter what happened, life hadn’t fully reached him. She’d seen that same look in him when he carved the mercenary apart. There was no anger, no satisfaction. Just methodical precision. He’d decided it had to be done, so he did it.

It would be so much easier if he was an idiot, but no. D’Ambray was sharp and manipulative. She couldn’t trust a single word coming out of his mouth. He would pretend to be a man’s best friend, then stab him in the back and keep moving. He said one thing, did another, and thought only he knew what. She had no idea where he actually stood on anything.

And yet they clashed against each other like fire and ice. He hadn’t bothered to manipulate her. Why? Did he think she wasn’t worth the effort?

No answers hid in his eyes. Elara took a step back and looked at him again.

“Nice specimen,” Savannah said from the doorway.

“He is.”

“Vanessa certainly thinks so.”

“Vanessa likes attaching herself to dangerous men.” Elara shrugged.

“Tell me you’re watching them.”

“I know every whisper that passes between them. What do you think of him?”

“Brutal. Efficient. Trouble. To be watched. Take your pick.” The older woman swept into the room. The light of the fey lantern brought out the rich red undertone to her skin. Normally a green wrap hid her curly hair, but right now it was down, floating about her head like a storm cloud. Power emanated from Savannah, vibrant and strong. So strong.

“What do you need?” the head witch asked.

“The palisade,” Elara said.

“Conrad told me.”

“Do we still buy supplies from that trader, Austin Dillard?”

“He comes around.”

“Next time he comes around, someone might mention that there is a palisade near the Old Market in need of supplies, except we haven’t heard from them in a bit.”