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I gave her a squeeze as we entered the dining room. “She grew up.”
Lucius and Lorian Nightwing stood near the bar, drinks in hand, alongside another Morgon man. The brothers mirrored each other in stature and huge, arching black wings, both bearing an air that made most people want to take one step back in their presence. Lucius held himself with more grace than Lorian, Sorcha’s mate and husband. Lorian’s gaze often troubled me. With one bright blue eye and one amber-gold, it was hard to keep my features schooled into nonchalance. It wasn’t just his eyes, but an unsettling predatory air that filled the room when he walked in. I asked Sorcha about it once. She simply whispered with a salacious grin, “It’s his dragon. His beast keeps to the surface.”
Though I didn’t quite understand what that meant, I felt it clearly enough. While Lucius was certainly dangerous in his own right, he exuded confidence and a stoic charm. Lorian was a bit more…wild.
The silver-winged Morgon with his back to me turned as we entered. Brawny and broad-shouldered, typical Morgon build, his stony features relaxed into a smile when his eyes met mine.
Sorcha practically hopped across the room, her clingy green dress swishing with her hips. “Moira. There you are.” Barely coming up to my shoulder, she swooped me into a hug. “Damn, girl. What is this? Shabby-chic week or something?” She stared at my plain black top and tattered jeans. “Girl, if I was you with those legs, I’d wear the shortest skirt I could find.”
“Good thing you’re not me.”
She laughed at my sass, looping her arm through mine. “Come sit, so I don’t get a crick in my neck from looking up.”
“You have to look up at Lorian all the time.”
“True.” She added in a low voice with a smirk. “But my neck and head are typically resting on the mattress.”
I punched her lightly in the arm.
“Ow! Are you still doing that body punching class or whatever?”
“Body boxing. And yes. It keeps me in good shape.”
“And keeps plenty of highly attractive bruises on your skin.”
I touched the bruise at my neck, remembering how my sparring partner and brother, Demetrius, had landed a swift kick yesterday. I shrugged. “It’s worth it.”
“There are better ways to blow off steam and keep in shape, Moira.”
Sorcha was no longer looking at me, but gazing across the room at her Morgon man, a lascivious grin creasing her face. I shook my head, trying not to imagine what she was imagining.
Jessen waved us over. “Kraven, I’d like you to meet my sister, Moira Cade.”
I withheld a heavy sigh. “Hi.” I extended my hand. Thankfully, he shook it like a real person, not like I was a dainty flower that might break under the slight pressure of a man’s handshake. No initial sparks, but I had to give the guy a chance.
“Hello,” he said with a smile. “It’s nice to meet you.”
He walked with me toward the table, held out a chair, and took the seat on my right, folding his wings tightly against his back. If Morgons let their wings extend in the seated position, they could easily brush the person next to them—a gesture, either protective or suggestive, depending on the situation, saved for those in more intimate relations. Glad he wasn’t being pushy on that score.
The table was set elegantly with bone-white china rimmed in gold. Glass votive candles lined the table runner of crimson brocade. Candlelight sparkled off the crystal-cut wine and water glasses. I unfolded my napkin in my lap, offering a small smile to Kraven as he did the same.
Jessen had hired two servers. The two human women, dressed in black and white livery, served us bowls of rich, brown broth with mushrooms and flanks of steak.
“Mmm. This smells great,” said Sorcha, spooning a bite. “Did Ruth make this?”
Jessen’s face contorted in mock-horror. “Do you think she’d allow any other cook in my kitchen? I’m sorry, her kitchen.”
They prattled about cooks and domestic stuff, while my mind wandered. Cremwell had said the Morgon who seemed overly friendly, buying them drink after drink at the after-party, never did give them a name. He had gotten distracted by a fight in the Pit between two Morgons—some sort of main-event fighting match of the after-party—and when Cremwell looked back to the bar, the guy was gone. So was Maxine.
“I understand you’re studying journalism at the University.”
Kraven’s brown eyes watched me as he stirred the soup around, not eating. He had a square jaw, and his nose crooked slightly to the left, a bad break that had never healed quite right. Still, it didn’t mar his appearance much. Though rough, he had a calm, kind face.
“Yes. I graduate next year. And you work for Nightwing Security, correct?”
He nodded. “I do.”
“I’m sure your job is interesting.”
