“Thank you for coming,” Reagan said, his tone level. “How is your father?”
He sat comfortably in his chair, as if to put everyone else at ease, broad shoulders relaxed beneath a buttoned black shirt. His dark, ash-brown hair fell in loose, shorter strands. It looked recently trimmed. I didn’t remember if it was like this earlier.
His gaze flicked to the necklace at my throat. I’d put it back on; the location relic seemed to steady something in me that was still on edge ever since that day. That cabin.
Joy let out a sound halfway between a hum and a scoff. Every head turned her way, and I saw the instant she regretted it.
“He’s still unconscious,” I said. “Hildegard thinks he’ll wake once his body’s recovered.”
Finnegan offered a small, kind smile as we sat, the olive of his sweater catching the same hue in his eyes. Eyes that kept darting to my side.
“Let’s hope that’s soon,” Cerridwen said.
“If you need anything, either of you, say the word,” Reagan offered.
Gwin tilted her head, studying my sister as though trying to fit a new piece into an unfinished puzzle.
“But for now,” Reagan went on, “we have things to discuss.”
At his signal, dinner appeared, a spread of cream-slicked meat, steaming rice, and a salad glimmering with spinach, apricot, and toasted nuts. The scent of seasoning drifted through the air.
I filled Joy’s plate while she examined each dish, frowning as if trying to identify the ingredients. She murmured her thanks when I passed it to her.
“Berry wine?” Finnegan offered casually to Joy, lifting the decanter.
She found him watching her, found the easy smile on his lips, and scowled.
“No,” she said. “I don’t make the same mistake twice.”
The table stilled. Understanding flickered across his face, thickening the air in the room.
“Water will be fine,” I said, intercepting before the silence grew worse.
Finnegan obliged, pouring the other pitcher into our glasses, his silver-blonde hair catching the lamplight.
“Your sister was wary of us too, when she first arrived,” Cerridwen said gently. “Yet here she is. You have nothing to fear from us, Miss Darling.”
“That remains to be seen,” Joy said, casting a glance at Reagan.
“He’s not the one you should be afraid of,” Gwin drawled, smirking and pointing her fork to the end of the table. “Reagan’s got a leash at the moment, with your sister’s name on it. It’s turned him into a… How do I put it? A docile dimwit.”
Reagan shot her a withering look.
Gwin only smiled wider, her gaze slinking toward me. “See? He’s completely tamed. He’s caught that condition of a man who’s stopped using his brain because the blood’s busy under his trousers. Any trace of a spine just—” She blew a puff of air. “Evaporated. Out of his system.”
“Enough, Gwinifer,” Reagan muttered.
She flicked her hand dismissively. “I’m trying to lighten the mood. You’re all acting like the younger Darling will leap across the table and strike us all.”
My fork slipped from my hand, clattering against the plate. Irritation itched through me as I fixed her with a glare.
“I’ll do what?” Joy demanded, frowning at her plate.
“Spectacular job easing the tension, Gwin,” Finnegan said dryly, brows knitting in disapproval.
She raised both palms, feigning innocence, then leaned forward to pile food onto her plate.
The sound of spoons against porcelain was loud, grating. It was hard enough to keep Joy from snapping as it was, and I didn’t have the energy to argue. So I turned to Reagan, only to find he’d taken my plate and was quietly filling it. The act was so unusual that Barracus’ gaze followed the movements.
