Thom scoffed and turned to Brea. With her smooth skin and impeccable figure, she looked no older than Evylin. “And you’re what? Eighty?”
With a smile, she said, “I’m fifty-five.”
“Ah, a year younger than my mother. Good for you.”
Brea hooked her arm around the back of her chair. “Age is a number. Maturity is what matters.”
“That’s nice,” Thom said with a smirk. “Too bad I’m wildly immature.”
Her dark eyes sparkled as she swirled her whiskey. “You’re good at this flirting thing,” she noted.
“Why do you think I offered?”
Brea glanced at Vayden. “You’re sure it won’t work?”
Thom didn’t fail to notice the way Vayden looked between them with curiosity in his eyes. He twirled the stem of his wine glass between his fingers. “You’re Auden’s last hope of saving Maura,” he told her. “He has nothing to lose by pursuing you and everything to gain by convincing you. He won’t stop.”
Brea let out a sigh, took a sip, then turned back to Thom. “In either case, keepthis,” she gestured to him, lounging in his chair, “up. If I’m going to be pestered, I may as well have some fun in the meantime.”
“You just waved your hand at the whole of me,” Thom replied. “What sort of instructions are those?”
She placed her elbows on the table, leaning toward him. “You’re very amusing.”
“Thank you, but I’m going to need more of a directive if you want my assistance.”
Brea’s smile softened her whole face, making her far less formidable. “This is going to be fun,” she said.
“Nota te cares envela, Breata,” Isla said in rapid Schonese.
Thom glanced at her, confused, but Brea ignored her. “How’s this for a directive?” she said, eyes locked with his. “Be yourself, and I think we’ll have a splendid time together, Thom Deckard.”
He tapped his thumb against the tabletop. “I’m not sure you want that?”
“Why not?”
“I’m known for being a shit.”
“Sounds entertaining.”
Thom leaned forward then, grinning. “All right, you’re on. Lieutenant Breata Lohen, prepare to be amazed by just how immature I can be.”
Her eyes sparkled. “I look forward to it.”
CHAPTER SIX
38TH OF CHRONOS, 1574
“Quit that,” Rafferty said, kicking at Ethenn’s foot.
“Sorry,” Ethenn mumbled. But he couldn’t stop his knee from bouncing under the breakfast table. They sat in the Crimson Clover’s dining hall, the bright morning sun doing the Creator’s work, reminding him what an idiot he’d been for drinking so much the previous night.
“Intoxicants are for dullards and heathens,”his uncle’s voice rang in his head.“Wise men stay away from the stuff.”
Ethenn wasn’t a wise man. He never had been.
Rafferty reached over and slapped Ethenn lightly across the face. “Kid, I don’t know what’s got you so agitated,” he said, silver-gray eyes narrowed. “But if you don’t stop shaking my damn porridge, I’ll give you something to be agitated about.”
Heat flared up Ethenn’s collar as he glared at his friend. He tightened his grip on his fork, choosing to take his anger out on the metal. From the second he’d awoken, anxiety set him on edge. It rankled in his gut, unsettling him as he went about his morning. He’d like to blame it on his hangover, but he knew that wasn’t the truth.
