Rook lifts a finger. “Technically, Dungeons and Dragons doesn’t offer—”
“Was I talking to you?” she snaps, whirling on her heel to face Rook. “No? That’s what I thought.”
The gargoyle actually blushes.
“Your situation is neither a role-play nor a kidnapping, Miss Avery,” I say, trying my best to hide my amusement at her sudden fire. Quite unexpected, that.
“Then why did these brutes just hunt me down and drag me back in here against my will? Is it ransom you’re after? A new torture victim for your little gargoyle party games? A weak, helpless servant to dust your wings and polish your talons for the rest of your lives?”
“Word of advice, witchling?” Augustine sighs. “I always find it’s best to just let him talk in these situations. You don’t realize this yet because you’re new here, but Draegan has authority issues, and he really just needs to feel like he’s got everything under control. So if you—”
“Augustine?” I give him my most polite smile.
“Yes?”
My smile vanishes. “Leave.”
“But I was just—”
“All of you.” I glare at each of them in turn. “There are a few things I’d like to clarify with our new guest about the house rules.”
With little more than a sigh and a disappointed lowering of their wings, Augustine and Rook do as they’re told. Surprising no one, Jude doesn’t move an inch.
“Thank you, Jude,” I say, “but I’ve got it from here. I’ll let you know if we need your input.”
“I’m not leaving you alone with her. No fucking way.”
I open my mouth tostronglysuggest he reconsider, but the girl beats me to it.
“I would rather be alone with him than with you,” she snaps.
Jude’s face falls. “But I made you a latte!”
“Youlocked me in a room.Youhunted me like an animal.Youthrew me over your shoulder like a...” She presses her fingertips to her temples. “You know what? I’m not having this conversation. Just go.”
“I will do no such—”
“I’m a prisoner here, Jude. Apparently, we’ll be seeing a lot of each other. So please just…Goddess!Just go!”
I head to the bar, once again stifling a chuckle.
Hell hath no fury…
Jude lingers another beat, but then turns his back and stomps away, very likely gouging up my floors in the process.
“I’d offer you a drink,” I say, pouring the last of the cognac into a glass, “but I’m not sure you’re even of age.”
She doesn’t respond.
I gesture toward the sofa. “Have a seat if you’d like. The fire will warm you up.”
Still, nothing.
I try another tack. “You’re not a prisoner, Miss Avery, but for reasons I will eventually explain, I cannot allow you to leave. So we can either continue to play our little ‘gargoyle party games,’ as you’ve so endearingly named them, or we can sit down and have a rational discussion about—”
“Whatever you’re going to do to me,” she snaps, “just get it over with.”
“Getwhatover with, exactly?”
