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Isabella is a threat to that, even if I’m not sure where we stand.
If she’s innocent—if I’ve been lied to—I’ve done my female a great disservice.
“I’d watch myself there, Aunt Theresa.” I level her with a glare. “This isn’t the time to test my patience.”
“Xadiel, how can you speak to me like this?” Again, she shifts as if to protect Timoth, putting herself slightly closer, and my nose twitches. I catch his scent mixed with hers. That explains his recent behavior, but how did I miss this? “Have you forgotten what her mother—”
“Enough.” My voice booms, cutting off my aunt’s response. “Bring him in.”
The reactions are immediate as Bartolo’s mangled body is dragged and dumped at my feet by Grady and his son. They helped with his capture, as did Cain, who’d come back earlier with my order to escort Isabella to the underground cells.
His report back changed everything. They undermined their king.
Many in the grand hall click their teeth at the prisoner. A few males begin to shake, their wolves wanting to burst free and exact revenge for their fallen queen, but one growl from me settles them. Heads lower and necks exposed, they still glower at the beaten man.
“Why are you bringing him—”
“Why is there a member of the fae guard here?” Isabella asks, cutting off my aunt, and her words cause Bartolo to freeze. We’ve tortured him for days, cut and bled him for hours on end, yet at her voice, he trembles. “High ranking at that.”
“Are you sure, Isabella?” Voice gruff, I say her name and take in the automatic reaction. Little Moon swallows hard, a shiver running down her spine, and I like it. The beast does too, nearly purring for her, but I bite the sound back. Stop myself from moving closer.
Not now. Not until the truth comes out, and if she’s innocent, I’ll beg on my knees.
She’ll deserve more than that.
“I am.” Rubbing her sore wrists, Isabella steps closer while sniffing the air. It’s delicate and cute, the tiny twitch. “He’s fae, all right, but not the most dangerous one here. The stench on him is of death and not strong enough to hold any kind of enchantment.”
“We can’t trust her. These people are murderers,” Theresa interjects, trying once again to touch me, but I sidestep her. Cut her with a look, and her expression shows hurt but also nervousness. She wrings her hands, eyes shifting around the room while Timoth’s picked himself up and placed himself behind her. “Don’t let her blind you. She’d say anything to save herself.”
Cain mind links me the moment the last word slips past Theresa’s lips.
Something smells foul, and it isn’t the prisoner.
I agree and nod. Little Moon’s calm demeanor speaks volumes to me.
Take your place behind my aunt and Timoth. No one leaves this room until I get the truth.
Yes, my king.
“Nasty Wiccan…son of a bitch,” Bartolo cries out, back arching off the ground and she’s barely moved one hand. She’s saying something in another language, Latin I think and almost too low to hear, but you’d think she’d branded him with a red-hot iron with how he twists himself from the pain.
He’s sweating and groaning, that dark blood seeming different now. There’s a tinge of blue to it, small, but on the edges of each drop. It too is dark, a near navy tone but visible under the right lighting. What the fuck?
“Who put you up to this? Answer me.” The power in her voice is unmistakable. Royalty. Isabella’s looking at him, and there’s so much hate in those clear blue orbs, but the determination outweighs all other emotions. Lips moving, her tiny fist closes and the older man grows ashen. “Why did Larue send you here?”
“Stop,” he grits out, his unhealed hands clutching at his wounded chest. “How is this possible?”
“My sister taught me a few things.” For a second my mate stumbles, knees weakening, but she rights herself before I can reach out and help. “Now answer me. Why are you here?”
“I’ll never betray my master.”
“Then die protecting that worthless scum.”
Another imposing figure enters the room then, his thundering footsteps making my mate stop. All heads turn, and I’m surprised to see my father standing a few feet from me. His hands are shaking, claws extended out, and his sight is set on my mate. Anger comes off him in waves, permeating the room, but Isabella stands tall and unmoving.
Once again, she does not bow. She does not flinch.
“What is the meaning of this, Xadiel?” A few steps closer, my father stops beside me but softens when he gets a better look at my mate. No hostility. If anything, there’s affection. Hope. “Isa?”
