I hummed a noncommittal response. Best to let him wonder for now. Until I stood on firmer ground with Isadora.
Ambrose watched me for another long moment. When I offered no further detail, he parted his lips, likely to press the matter further.
Instead, I dipped my head and said, “Father. Sebastian.”
My brother didn’t respond. He’d clearly lost himself in another chapter, murmuring softly to himself in a language I didn’t speak. I didn’t interrupt, knowing he didn’t care for conversations such as these.
As I exited the library, the weight I’d carried since last night eased. If my father could be trusted, then Seraphina hadn’t been behind the break-in. A large part of me was relieved. The thought of my mother vandalizing Isadora’s loft was more than distressing. At the same time, it bothered me that we hadn’t found any answers yet. Someone had gone to great lengths to rattle Isadora.
Henrik already stood in the foyer with my coat in hand.
“Thank you,” I said, sliding into the sleeves.
“Of course, sir. Have a lovely day.”
He held open the door, and I breathed in the warm air. Once I stepped outside, I pulled out my phone. No new messages from Rue, but there was one from Isadora. A simple text with two frightening words.
They read, “Help me.”
I stared at the screen.
My world narrowed around those words. Everything else—the library, my father, Sebastian—fell away.
I didn’t hesitate. I dashed to my car, climbed inside, fired up the engine, and tore down the drive. I didn’t know what I would be walking into. But I knew one thing for certain. If someone had touched a single hair on Isadora’s head, they wouldn’t live to see sunset.
Chapter
Nineteen
ISADORA
Downright fuckable?
Wasn’t that what Thorne said the townspeople called her brother—or brothers? Frankly, I understood the collective thirst. And that said something, considering how I’d seen plenty of handsome men throughout my eternal life. But this?
This was absurd.
They weren’t merely men. Nor merely werewolves.
They were weaponized testosterone.
First, they were enormous. Not just tall, but vast. The eldest, Alaric—or Ricky for short—looked like he wrestled bears for sport. He’d stormed into the bar clad in a leather jacket, dark denim pants that couldn’t possibly have been off-the-rack, and sunglasses so large, they covered a quarter of his face. Within seconds of arriving, he’d swept Thorne into a bone-cracking hug and swung her in circles while her poor legs flailed a good foot off the ground.
She’d cussed him out, using a far more colorful vernacular than I’d heard her use up to this point, then punched him in the throat when he’d refused to release her. I’d expected an angry flash of golden eyes, or a snarl worthy of a sabertooth tiger. Instead, Ricky had grinned, tousled his little sister’s hair, then set her carefully back on her feet, as though she were a fragile teacup instead of a werewolf.
Next came Felix.
Younger than Ricky, but still older than Thorne, he’d strolled in with a cocky sort of grace and an undeniable “older brother” energy. One that manifested when he’d called out “Thornicle!” and then instantly nicknamed me “Izzy-Pop.” The mischievous glint in his shimmering green eyes told me he’d done it purposely to piss off his little sister and likely me as well. In two hundred years, few had ever given me a nickname. Fewer would have given me one as…charming as that.
And if those two weren’t enough to contend with, a third walking slab of muscle had arrived shortly after. Thorne had screamed his name—Cassian—and thrown herself into his arms. He’d caught her mid-leap and spun her in circles before bringing her gently back to earth, murmuring something I couldn’t quite hear. He hadn’t let her go, though. Instead, he’d hooked an arm around her shoulders and locked her against his side, her head barely reaching his pecs—his inhumanly defined pecs.
Thorne had then taken it upon herself to introduce us all. After which she’d declared, in front of her assembled brothers, that I was her new forever-bestie.
All three brothers had turned to look at me in unison, their gazes alight with identical glints of mischief, menace, and brotherly affection.
Naturally, I’d feared for my life. And not in a “they might kill me” sort of way but more like “what fresh, fraternal hell had Thorne dragged me into.” I’d quickly sent a text to Lucien begging for help, all while Thorne convinced her brothers that it was their personal duty to protect me, since I was their little sister’s best friend.
All four of them had left me rather speechless. I had no idea what to say. Or think. These werewolves had completely invaded my bar. And the worst part? Bernard hadn’t so much as chimed his displeasure, which felt like a personal betrayal, considering the way he’d treated me when I’d first arrived. Was it too much to ask for my resident ghosties to give a few unsettling moans? Maybe make some furniture float?
