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Public arguments at the bar aren’t that uncommon. Get a little alcohol in people, and oh boy howdy, do you hear someinterestingthings. Affairs. Unpaid alimony. Family secrets. Squabbles over dating someone’s sister. I’ve heard it all. Literally. Oh, I pretend not to eavesdrop. Every good bartender does. But some glasses get extra clean as I wash them over and over while listening to the juicy details. I’ve even been known to make drinks a little stronger to get some more details flowing. I just can’t help it as I slink toward the door Sigurd vanished through.
“And you were where? Just flying around out there?” the woman asks, fury laden in her words.
Flying. I shiver. That’s right. If this is real, if he’s real, he had wings before. A fairy with wings, but ones like a bird, not the little glittering things in fairytales. I lean against the door, hoping to hear more, and it swings wide.
I screech. My footing slips. I brace to slam against the stone floor.
Strong arms catch me. Pine and citrus hug me like a firm pillow.
Sigurd.
His name clamors over and over in my head as he helps me to stand. “I’ve got you,” he whispers like I’m a wounded animal rather than a woman grappling with wild truths. “Are you all right?”
“Sigurd.” The woman’s voice holds a slight quaver. “Who is that?”
My stomach bottoms out. Great, just great. This is where I get yelled at for being a two-faced little floozy. It’s a fight I’ve seen way too many times but thankfully never been the center of.
Sigurd steadies me on my feet and begins to turn me toward the mystery woman. His arm is firmly around my shoulders, clutching me like I might run at any moment.
And oh boy, I might.
She’s anything but what I pictured. Tall and lean. The skintight shirt and pants duo she wears hugs her like a second skin, revealing sculpted limbs and abs a supermodel would die for. Her black hair is pulled back in a severe ponytail that highlights pale, pointed ears. The ponytail fades to crimson at the end, where it drapes down her chest. Obsidian dripped in blood. She gapes at me, her face almost ashen.
This woman could kick my butt in a heartbeat.
“Moria, this is—”
“This isn’t what it looks like,” I blurt, cutting him off. “I’m not… We’re not”—I gesture between us—“a thing. I promise. I was hurt. He saved me. That’s all. Nothing else. He’s just about to take me home.”
All at once, her shock vanishes. Moria, if that’s her name, throws her head back, roaring with laughter. “You think I’m—”
She manages before doubling over.
Sigurd’s hand flexes on my shoulder. I spare a glance out of the corner of my eye only to catch his stiff jaw and pinched look.
“Moria,” he accentuates her name with pointed sharpness toward the woman, “is my cousin.”
Cousin. Oh. Oh boy.
Moria slaps her leg. “Wow,” she says, reining in her laughter. “I needed that.” All trace of humor vanishes as quickly as it came. “For a moment there, I thought she was…” She trails off.
“Evelyn?” I supply.
Sigurd stiffens. Moria’s attention snaps back to me. “You can’t be—”
“No,” Sigurd snaps before heaving a heavy sigh. “She is not. As I was saying, this is Wren.”
It would be great if someone would actually tell me who Evelyn is. Someone I look like, obviously. Someone Sigurd desires. He made that much clear when he tried to kiss me. He wasn’t that intoxicated—I couldn’t even smell it on his breath. But dang, did he smell good all on his own.
“Interesting.” She flicks her hair behind her. “And do you have something to do with why my cousin has basically started a war and then disappeared on me? For days!” She jabs an accusing finger at him.
“Moria…” he warned.
“Days?” I step away, pulling against his hold. “No? It’s been days?” My voice cracks. My legs twitch, aching to run, to get home.
She sucks in a hissed breath. “You…”
Her wide-eyed stare shows more horror than when I fell into the room.
