by Donna Grant
Kinsey pulled up the list of employees at Kyvor, starting with the highest ranking. Of the thirty executives, she had met two of them. Her boss, Cecil Beltz, a sixty-year-old who had worked his way up through the company for forty years.
And Cecil’s supervisor, Harriet Smythe. She was pretty, and one of the youngest executives at just thirty-three. Though she seemingly came out of nowhere, no one could fault her work.
Two of the thirty in top management. That wasn’t much to go on.
“What did you find?” Ryder asked.
She glanced at him before frowning back at the screen. “I decided to try and see who all I know at Kyvor. There are thirty in the top brass. I’ve personally met two of them.” She pointed to the first picture. “Cecil, my boss.” Then she pointed to the next picture of a young woman with bleach-blond hair and a bright white smile. “And Harriet, who Cecil answers to.”
Ryder studied the two for a moment before he began to tap the virtual keyboard. Kinsey was shocked when he pulled up her employee folder and began to look through it.
“You’ve had four promotions in three years,” he said with a nod of approval.
Kinsey sat a little straighter. “That’s right.”
“You made some major moves through the company, Kins, which means you caught the attention of more than Cecil and Harriet.”
She always loved when he shortened her name. Other people did it and she lost her mind, but not with Ryder. It was the way he said it, as if it were an endearment.
“Did you hear me?” he asked as he turned his face to her.
Kinsey could’ve kicked herself. “Yeah. Of course, I heard you.”
“You didna say anything.”
She shrugged. “What is there to say? You’re stating facts.”
“What I’m doing is pointing out that every one of those top executives knows you.”
Kinsey dropped her head back against the chair and blew out a breath. If she could stop thinking of Ryder as a lover, and think of him as a co-worker, she might actually get her brain to function properly.
“Right,” she said and lifted her head. “I need to see which one has it out for me.”
“We,” Ryder corrected.
Kinsey felt herself softening to him. Dammit. This isn’t what she wanted. She couldn’t. But it was so-damn-hard not to. She gave a nod, refusing to look into Ryder’s hazel eyes again. “A simple search of me wouldn’t bring up my love life.”
“They didna do a simple search.”
At those words she had no choice but to look at him. Kinsey began to worry as she saw the frown deepening Ryder’s forehead. “What do you mean?”
“Knowing about us, about our connection means that someone has probably been following you.”
Kinsey shook her head. “No. That can’t be right. I’m a nobody.”
“You were with me,” he said in a voice filled with sadness.
She dropped her head into her hands and then used her fingers to rake her hair out of her face as she squared her shoulders and sat up. “Then they weren’t following me. They were following you.”
“Most likely. My being with you brought you under scrutiny.”
“I still don’t understand how anyone at Kyvor could get ahold of such information.”
“Ulrik.” Ryder said the name as if it were poison on his tongue.
Kinsey shivered, because she had a feeling the more they dug into this, the more she was going to learn about how intricately she and Ryder were joined.
She wasn’t sure how that made her feel. Part of her was pleased Ryder was with her, because she knew if anyone could help her through this it was him.
But another part dreaded and feared being part of a world she wasn’t ready to accept.
Ready or not, she was planted right in the middle of things.
Chapter Seven
Ireland
Dark Fae Palace
Taraeth knew he was walking a fine line, but as king of the Dark, it was something he did with style. After all, no Dark had ever ruled as long as he.
And he remained in control because he had a way of putting the right people around him. As well as choosing sides.
It wasn’t as if the Dark had a lot of people wanting to be allies. But only a fool would turn down an offer that could gain the Dark dominion over the humans.
“Did you hear me?”
Taraeth hated the British accent Mikkel used when he was attempting to pretend he was better than everyone else. The only time Mikkel’s Scots brogue came out was when he was angry.
And the only one who managed to get him angry was his nephew—Ulrik.
“I heard,” Taraeth said.
He raised a hand to quiet Mikkel as the Irish folk song continued to play. Didn’t Mikkel know not to interrupt such wondrous music?
When the last strings of the song played, Taraeth then turned to his guest. Mikkel sat upon the black velvet half-moon-shaped sofa with one arm draped along the back. He wore a custom-made navy suit with a cream dress shirt beneath and a navy and gold tie. Mikkel’s black hair was neither long nor short, but somewhere in between.
Though he wasn’t as beautiful as a Fae, Taraeth recognized the appeal Mikkel had on the fairer sex with his height, gold eyes, and his fortune.
That wasn’t enough for Mikkel though. He’d had a taste—albeit a brief one—of being a Dragon King. Now, he coveted the highest position within those ranks—King of Kings.
Mikkel had gone to great lengths over many centuries to put himself where he was now. Though Taraeth would never admit it aloud, Mikkel had managed to do quite a lot to the Kings.
However, the credit didn’t belong to just Mikkel.
Ulrik had done his fair share against the Kings. All before he even knew his uncle was alive.
Taraeth smiled when he realized how impatient Mikkel had become. “What was your question again?” he asked, just to irritate further.
“I want to know everything you have on Ulrik.”
The song, and then asking Mikkel to repeat the question had bought Taraeth a little more time. Ulrik knew Taraeth was helping Mikkel, but Mikkel had no idea that Taraeth and Ulrik struck their own bargain.
“And he never will,” Taraeth mumbled beneath his breath. In a louder tone he said, “Ulrik is still being … entertained … by Muriel.”
Just as Sinny, her sister, was “entertaining” Mikkel.
“I already know that much.” Mikkel’s lips thinned. His gold eyes grew hard. “I want to know the rest.”
Taraeth rose from the black sofa that mirrored the one Mikkel occupied across the space. He ran a hand down his black silk shirt as he walked to the liquor. There he poured a glass for Mikkel and handed it to him.
As he turned back to the alcohol, he glanced down at his missing left arm. His hatred for Denae hadn’t lessened. If anything, he despised her more every day.
Taraeth poured whisky—Irish, of course—into a glass and took a sip. Then he faced Mikkel. “I’m not Ulrik’s keeper. I don’t follow him around. I thought that was your job.”
“I’ve people watching him,” Mikkel admitted. “But he continues to slip past them.”
“Perhaps your people aren’t as good as you think.”
Mikkel tossed back the whisky and lowered the glass. “If they fail, they pay with their lives.”
Taraeth shrugged, uncaring. After all, he did the same thing. But he was leading an entire race. Mikkel would never be able to lead the Dragon Kings that way. The other Kings would kill him.
“I also have a few of my people working for him.”
Taraeth returned to his sofa and chuckled. “That may not be wise, my friend. If Ulrik finds out…”
“He’ll never find out,” Mikkel said with confidence. “That lad knows I’m in charge. He does what I say without question. And he’ll continue to do so.”
Taraeth wasn’t so sure, but he wouldn’t be the one to point that out to Mikkel. Ulrik would do that soon enough. Because
though Taraeth hadn’t admitted it to his right-hand man, Balladyn, he agreed that Ulrik was the stronger of the two.
Yet there was a slight chance Mikkel would win. Taraeth was still hedging his bets for the moment. That could change tomorrow. Until then, he would placate Mikkel in whatever way was needed.
Mikkel raised his empty glass. Taraeth motioned to the liquor with his head. With a smirk, Mikkel rose and poured himself another drink.
“You had the Dragon Kings,” Mikkel said. “Edinburgh, London, Glasgow, Inverness, and all the other cities were burning. Your Dark were feeding on the souls of the useless humans. Why did you pull back?”
Taraeth’s good mood evaporated like smoke. He didn’t enjoy being questioned by anyone, but most especially someone who wasn’t a Fae—like Mikkel.
“We got what we needed with the video. We’ve dealt the Kings a major blow and focused the world’s attention on them,” Taraeth answered.
Mikkel brought the glass to his lips and hesitated. “Did you? Deal the Kings a blow, that is?” he asked before he took a drink.
Taraeth wanted to kill Mikkel right then. It was only by sheer force of will that he held himself back. But he would wipe that fucking sneer off his face. “We did more damage in a few hours than your spy working among those at Dreagan.”
“Touché,” Mikkel said as his gold gaze narrowed.
Taraeth watched Mikkel slowly walk back to the sofa and sit. Tense silence descended over the room Taraeth used for private meetings. Right outside the two sets of doors were Dark Fae ready to kill with just a word from him.
Though Taraeth could take care of Mikkel on his own, if need be. It might one day come to that, but if he ever did, Taraeth would then have to face Ulrik.
And that was one former Dragon King he’d rather not mess with.
There was too much loathing, vengeance, and animosity within Ulrik. It consumed him, devoured him.
That kind of hatred spawned an animal that could never be tamed, an animal that would never stop until it got exactly what it wanted—retribution.
“Ulrik and Con fought,” Mikkel said.
Taraeth had discovered that after it happened. He lifted one shoulder. “Isn’t that exactly what you wanted him to do?”
“Not until I give the order. I decide when they fight.”
“My men tell me there were other Kings there.”
Mikkel’s lips flattened in anger as he sat back. “Rhys, Kiril, and Darius. All to protect some stupid mortal.”
“Darius’s mate.”
Mikkel rolled his eyes and snorted. “Mates. That’s the biggest load of shite I’ve heard in eons. Ulrik learned his lesson quick enough with that bitch he took to his bed professing to love her.”
“You won’t take a mate?”
“Me?” Mikkel laughed. “Once I’m King of Kings and you and the Dark rid this planet of every last fucking human, then I’ll be the savior of my race and return the dragons. I’ll find a beautiful Silver to be mine.”
“Because the humans can’t carry a Dragon King’s seed to term?” Taraeth questioned.
Mikkel lifted his glass in a salute. “Precisely.”
“That sounds like a nice plan.” It went unsaid that it hinged on Ulrik challenging and winning against Con, and then Mikkel betraying Ulrik.
“That day is closer than you think.”
Taraeth finished off his whisky and turned the glass in his hand. “I still remember when I stumbled upon this realm. All those mortals throwing themselves at me, begging me to take their bodies. How were we to stay away? Now there are billions of them out there. They would feed every Fae—Light and Dark—for years to come.”
“It’s a wise bargain we struck.”
Taraeth smiled at Mikkel, wondering if Mikkel was plotting against him as he was scheming against Mikkel. “That we did, my friend.”
“Will you help me keep track of Ulrik?”
“That I can’t do.”
Mikkel’s smile was gone. “Can’t? Or won’t?”
“Can’t,” Taraeth said again. “Your race may not have to answer to anyone but Con, but the Fae do.”
“Who?”
“Death.” Taraeth didn’t even like saying the name aloud.
Mikkel chuckled and crossed one leg over the other. “You live thousands of years and die. Why would you fear death?”
“No. Death. Death is our judge. For millions of years there has been no sign of Death’s associates. Until recently. Now all the Fae whisper about is the Reapers.”
“Who are they?”
Taraeth couldn’t quite hide his shiver of apprehension. “The Reapers are the hands of Death. Death might be the judge, but the Reapers are the executioners. They police all Fae.”
“So kill the bastards.”
Taraeth glanced at his glass. “No one knows who the Reapers are. No one has even seen Death. We can’t fight what we don’t see or know.”
“So you’re afraid of some whispers?”
“What do you think has been hunting the Fae besides the Kings? The Reapers.”
Mikkel made a sound at the back of his throat. “Has anyone ever seen one of these Reapers?”
“You see one, you die.”
“Of course you do,” Mikkel scoffed.
“Mock all you want. The Reapers aren’t just a legend. They’re real.”
Mikkel gave a shake of his head, as if to say that Taraeth had lost what little sense he had. “Superstitious is what you are. All of you were told that nonsense to keep you in line. Why would only your race have such beings as judge, jury, and executioner? Wouldn’t the Kings have had it as well?”
“The Fae are different, Mikkel.”
“That’s a pile of shite, and you know it.”
Taraeth held the glass in his hand but set it on the sofa beside him. “You dare to ridicule my people and our beliefs?”
“I’d ask that you not be so narrow minded.”
“You dragons think you’re so much better than everyone else. You came to me for an alliance, but even now you look down your nose at me.”
“Because this Reaper stuff is nonsense,” Mikkel stated in a cold voice.
Taraeth wondered what Ulrik would say if he were sitting across from him instead of Mikkel. Ulrik wouldn’t give a royal fuck, that’s what he would say. His attention was on one thing—bringing down Con.
“It’s like the humans believing fairies are small, winged creatures with pointy ears,” Mikkel said.
Taraeth merely smiled aloofly. “But we’re not mortals. We’ve lived for billions of years. We travel from realm to realm, and our magic is feared by many. The Fae aren’t some mindless cattle to be swayed by a myth or two.”
“But you’ve never seen a Reaper.”
“And I hope I never do. That doesn’t, however, mean I don’t believe they’re here. My people all over the U.K. claimed to see Dark fall dead for no apparent reason. That’s one of the modes of the Reapers. Then there was mention of a white-haired Fae with red-rimmed white eyes.”
Mikkel sat forward, suddenly interested. “White eyes?”
“The Reapers are Fae who are given greater power, speed, and whatever else Death wishes. They’re not to be messed with.”
“But I’m a Dragon King,” Mikkel said. He set his glass on the sofa, then rose and walked from the room.
Taraeth watched him, waiting until the doors closed behind Mikkel before he said, “You’re not a Dragon King.”
Chapter Eight
Through the countless decades, there had been numerous conversations between Ryder and Con about Ulrik. Ryder hated spying on Ulrik. No matter what Ryder suggested, Con wouldn’t allow Ulrik to just live his life.
Over the last few months Ryder was focused on Ulrik in a way he’d never been before—and even more so now because the thought of Ulrik pulling Kinsey into this war sent Ryder into a frenzy.
Ryder had every camera in Perth looking for Ulrik’s face or his car. Anything to prove that the banish
ed Dragon King was there.
Ulrik proved time and again that he’d do whatever it took to hurt the Dragon Kings. That usually meant he targeted their lovers.
Ryder’s blood went cold at the thought of something happening to Kinsey. She had been on her own for three years, and nothing had happened. But that didn’t mean nothing would happen either.
The fact she’d been sent to Dreagan was like cannon fire over the estate. Someone was making a point. No, Ryder corrected himself. Ulrik was making a point.
The question was what?
Ulrik could’ve gotten to her and killed Kinsey easily. Why hadn’t he? Why had he brought her to Dreagan?
None of her tech held any signs of a virus or being tampered with. Ryder checked them all three times just to be sure. Her bag, her purse, and even her car had been thoroughly examined. Still, they found nothing.
Unless … Kinsey was the Trojan horse.
Ryder swung his head toward her. She far surpassed most individuals who worked with computers doing the intricate things she did. She was kind and sweet, willing to help anyone who needed it. But she wasn’t a good actress.
He’d always been able to tell when she lied about anything. Since she walked through the door, she’d been telling the truth.
Yet others had been fooled. Darcy, for one. Ulrik and his old Druid had gone to tremendous lengths to make Darcy think her magic remained, when in fact it had left her the moment she helped Ulrik.
Then there was Iona. Her father was murdered just to get her back to Scotland so Ulrik and the Dark Fae could access Dreagan.
“What is it?” Kinsey asked when she caught him staring.
Ryder shrugged, not wanting to tell her his thoughts just yet. “I’m thinking.”
“Apparently hard by the way your forehead is creased. It’s about what’s going on, isn’t it?”
He gave a slow nod. His gaze landed on the box of donuts, and for the first time, he didn’t want one.
“Just tell me,” Kinsey urged as she swiveled her chair to face him.
“No’ yet.”
“Why?” she pressed, her voice edged with a hint of aggravation. She suspected he was hiding something.
Ryder shoved a lock of hair off his forehead. “I need to get it all sorted in my head first.”
