by Lyra Evans
Lane rolled his eyes. “You did business with the dead Witch, didn’t you? Must be a difficult time for you.” He gestured to one of the Wolves of his company and was quickly presented with a drink. It was a blood red liquid of unknown source. Oliver tried to smell the air, but his senses were beginning to dim back to their usual standard.
“It was a shock to all who knew her,” Connor said evenly, “but I can’t say I was the Wolf who knew her best. I think we both know that.” Lane swirled the liquid in his glass, sniffed it, then took a gulp.
“True,” Lane said, his eyes flashing back to Oliver. “Which makes the presence of a Wizard in your company even more questionable.” He turned his full attention to Oliver now. “Did you know the poor woman?”
Oliver rolled his jaw invisibly. With a shrug, he said, “Eloise Carmichael? No. She’s far too high society for my circle. But everyone in Nimueh’s Court knows the Carmichael family. Kind of hard not to. My heart goes out to her loved ones. I can’t imagine how painful the news must have been for them.” He held Lane’s gaze until this point, then turned his head to Connor, placing his palm flat against Connor’s chest. “I can’t imagine what I’d do if something ever happened to Connor.”
Lane’s eyes were keen, looking for any moment of awkwardness, even the slightest indication of a lie. Oliver was almost impressed, really, with his attention to detail. He wondered if Lane was any kind of Logan’s Court equivalent to a cop. Come to think of it, Oliver wasn’t sure how law enforcement worked in Logan’s Court.
“So you have no stake in solving her murder?” Lane asked in an undertone. “Nothing professional riding on it, say?” He did his best not to say the word police, and he was still speaking quietly enough the words wouldn’t carry beyond the perimeter of his circle. He had no intention of sparking a potentially dangerous fight, it seemed.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Connor said, surprising Oliver. He tried his best not to look it, giving Connor only a mildly confused look. Lane’s attention was diverted from Oliver, though, which was clearly Connor’s plan. “I’ve been asked by Logan personally to look into the matter. See, the Alpha isn’t terribly happy at the prospect that one of his own kin might have broken the Treaty. It reflects pretty poorly on him and might call his position as Head of one of the Three Courts into question. How do you think Nimueh and Maeve would react, really, finding out that Logan can’t control his own people?” For the briefest moment, a flash of concern crossed Lane’s face. Moving like a static spark, it was there and gone in a blink. Connor seemed to notice and took the opportunity to push. “It would almost certainly mean war again. And we all know how difficult that would be. Particularly for the Alphas of the central packs.” Every word punctuated the air, as though Connor was driving home tiny spears into Logan’s limbs. He looked uncomfortable now, but the suspicion didn’t vanish from his eyes.
“Of course,” he said after a moment. “I will help you in any way I can, Connor.” And the matter seemed settled, until Lane added, “provided you make a show of good faith. Prove to me this Wizard is your consort.”
Connor’s eyes flashed, and he rounded on Lane, stepping forward into the circle, suddenly larger than he’d ever seemed to Oliver. His eyes were silver, like mercury, and his teeth had turned to fangs. His short-cropped, white blond hair seemed to raise against his neck as he advanced. Lane didn’t back down in the face of this, but it may have been due to the wall immediately at his back.
“How dare you make demands of me,” Connor said, his voice a growl, his words as sharp as his teeth. “I am an Alpha of the Inner Circle, Third Alpha of Logan’s kin, and I will not have my claims challenged by the likes of you.” Lane’s pupils were pinpricks as he glared up at Connor, suddenly small in the face of him. His jaw was squared, though, his every muscle taut with the nerve to stand his ground. Connor looked him up and down once. “You want a show of good faith? It is by my good faith alone that you stand here still.”
The Wolves around Lane had shifted in position, apparently caught between wanting to defend their Alpha and maintaining their position in the hierarchy, but the tension was at a breaking point. And Oliver needed to diffuse it.
He reached out for Connor, hand sliding down his arms, now bulging with muscle he carried well, and he drew Connor back to him. Connor followed, moving more easily than Oliver expected. His eyes never left Lane, though, even as Oliver stepped between them. Oli faced Connor, stroking at his chest and shoulders.
“Come on, Connor,” Oli said, voice smooth and coaxing. “He just wants a show.” Connor’s eyes flickered to Oliver, and the silver had faded back to blue, his fangs gone back to teeth. “You said yourself,” Oliver said with a sly smile and a glance over his shoulder at Lane. “He’s just envious. So let’s give him a taste.”
And Oliver pushed Connor gently down into one of the leather chairs of Lane’s circle and climbed atop him. He straddled Connor, spreading his legs as far as the tight pants would allow. Oliver slid down Connor’s body until he was seated snugly on his lap, his hands sliding up Connor’s shoulders to his neck. He cupped Connor’s jaw, tilting his head back. Their eyes locked, Oliver bit his lip. His heart was racing, and pressed against Connor’s chest, he could feel Connor’s beating a staccato rhythm too.
Without letting himself think too much, Oliver leaned in, his lips parted, until their mouths were barely a hair’s width apart. He breathed in, tasting Connor on the air, relishing the feeling of him so close. His heartbeat in his ears, a lump in his throat, Oliver inhaled into the kiss. Their lips met like counterparts in a cosmic dance—perfectly and without beginning or end.
Connor kissed him back without hesitation, his hands finding their way to Oliver’s back, pulling him even closer until there was no air between them at all. Kissing Connor felt like breathing, and Oliver was desperate for it, his hands in Connor’s hair, buried in the soft tufts, as smooth as fur and finer than he dreamed. Connor tasted of light and heat, like fire in the darkness of Oliver’s life.
He pressed his tongue to the seam of Connor’s mouth and slipped it inside, sliding over Connor’s tongue and glorying in the taste of him. Connor slid one hand up, into Oliver’s hair scraping his nails gently against the skin and sending sparks through Oliver’s body. He moaned into the kiss, his hips pressing harder into Connor. He was hard again, so hard it hurt, but he wasn’t as concerned this time. Connor shifted them, cradling Oliver as he leaned him back, hungry for more of him.
Oliver let Connor arc him backward, let him bite at Oliver’s lower lip, sucking it into his mouth. A swirl of uncoiled lust ravaged Oliver’s body, and he found himself panting, drawing further into the kiss as though it was his only means of survival.
With every fiber of his body, Oliver wanted Connor. He lost track of where they were, or why. He had no sense of the surrounding club, of the Wolves who stood even inches away from them, watching and waiting. All Oliver knew in those moments was Connor and his lips and his tongue and his hands and his cock, hard and thick and pressed against his own. All Oliver knew was that Connor was exactly who he had been looking for this whole time, he’d just been in the wrong Court.
And then, like he was struck on the head, Oliver remembered where they were. It took every ounce of his self-control to pull out of the kiss, his arms around Connor’s back, his hands deep in his hair. Connor’s eyes were dark, his irises nearly eclipsed by his pupils. He panted in time with Oliver, both of them staring desperately at one another. The inch of space between them was agony, but Oliver licked his lips, taking in the last taste of Connor he could, and he turned his head to face Lane.
“Satisfied?” he asked, breathless and husky. Lane gaped at them for a long moment, as Oliver tried to calm himself down without moving. He didn’t think he could move while he was so hard, and Connor didn’t rush him. His hands were still burning into Oliver’s back, raking across his skin in what Oli thought he meant as reassuring lines. But they weren’t reassuring him; they were exciting
him.
It took much too long to Oliver’s mind, but eventually Lane’s gaping face broke into a grin. He laughed and settled more calmly back into his place against the wall.
“Sorry, Connor,” he said, and it sounded genuine. “Meant no disrespect, you know. Can’t be too careful and I’ve got to protect my Wolves. I didn’t think I’d see the day you actually picked a consort, and when you walked in here with—” Lane stopped himself, considering Oliver with a smile that spoke of amazement. “Well, congratulations, anyway. I’m happy for you. It’s about time you found yourself an Omega, and this one’s got fire. He’s perfect for you.”
A strange flipping sensation filled Oliver’s chest, and he finally managed so extricate himself from Connor without pain. He didn’t go far, settling on the armrest of the chair and leaning back against Connor’s chest. Connor nuzzled his head, inhaling slowly in the way he had done every time Oliver got close enough. It soothed Oliver now, enough for him to shake off the frayed nerves from the night.
“He’s not,” Connor said, his voice heavy with unresolved lust. Oliver nearly flinched, but Connor added, “an Omega.” Connor looked up at Lane, a pleasure evident on his face that Oliver wanted to own. “I was never looking for one.”
Lane’s eyebrows rose, and he nodded. “Fair enough.” With a heavy sigh, he conceded. “What information do you need?”
Connor snaked an arm around Oliver, his fingers playing in the hair at the nape of Oliver’s neck. Oliver tried to force his mind to the conversation, ignoring Connor’s fingers, but it was difficult. Why was Connor always doing things that made it difficult for Oliver to think?
“Eloise Carmichael was involved with a Wolf,” Connor said. “I need to know who and where to find them.”
“He didn’t kill her,” Lane said automatically. Connor nodded.
“He might know something,” he said. “I have to talk to him.”
Lane considered Connor for a moment, his face serious again. He took a deep breath and nodded. “His name is Blake Murphy. He’s one of my Betas and a good Wolf. Most honest Wolf I’ve ever met.”
Connor sat up, and Oliver straightened with him. “I understand. Where is he, Lane?”
After another moment, Lane got to his feet. “I’ll take you to him.”
Chapter 15
They followed Lane down a dark corridor that branched off the main club. Connor seemed unperturbed by Lane using one of his club’s rooms without permission, but Oliver couldn’t quite put it out of his mind. How often did Wolves use the rooms of Connor’s clubs for their own ends without telling him? What could they do in these rooms, with the owner unaware? The cop in Oliver shifted uncomfortably at all the myriad possibilities. Even now, with Blake Murphy hidden away here, potentially a murderer, it made Oliver uneasy that Connor was unknowingly harboring him.
The hallway was made up of arched trees and branches, much like the entrance was, but tiny fairy lights hung, strung along the branches of every other tree, to light the way more clearly. They passed rooms here and there, blocked off with hanging moss or branches curled over in fashion of a door. Finally, they stopped nearly at the end of the corridor. The door before them stood ajar, a thick piece of bark coated in moss. Lane stopped at the threshold and appraised Connor and Oliver once more. His eyes lingered on Oliver’s neck, on the obsidian choker, and finally he nodded inside.
“He’s—taking it hard,” Lane said in a low voice.
Connor only stared into Lane’s face, and Oliver thought he was searching for something. Lane held his gaze, and something unsaid passed between them. Maybe Connor was more bothered by Lane’s unsanctioned use of his rooms than he seemed.
“How did he find out?” Connor asked. Lane looked to the half-open door and sighed.
“Same way we all did, unfortunately.” He shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. “The Daily Spell. He’s the one who keeps tabs on ape news for me—” Connor’s eyes flashed and Oliver tensed. He was used to hearing the slur by now, but after their conversation in the circle, Oliver thought Lane might use more caution in his language.
“You should check your vocabulary,” Connor said, his voice icy. “A woman is dead, and one might think you weren’t really interested in finding justice.”
Lane shifted, his jaw tight, and nodded. “Sorry,” he said, turning to Oliver. “Habits.”
Oliver smirked, drawing on an emotion he didn’t quite feel. The entire day had thrown him so far off track he wasn’t sure he’d ever get back. “Tell you what,” he said to Lane. “You can call me ape all you want, as long as I get to call you puppy.”
Lane’s eyes flashed, but after a moment, he barked a laugh. “No, definitely not an Omega,” he muttered, and stepped aside leaving access to the door clear. “He’s my kin, Connor. Please remember that.”
Connor hesitated, nodded once, then pushed past the door. Oliver followed closely, the hair at the back of his neck on end. The room was cold, colder than the corridor or the club. It was nearly as cold as it was outside, which Oliver assumed was because it acted as cold storage for the club. The walls were lined with storage racks packed full of bottles and boxes of ingredients. Half the stock was what you might expect a club to have on hand—beer, wine, ice, fruit, juice, and a selection of the usual potions—but the other half had a number of strange things. Raw meat from all the animals you might find in a forest (and some you wouldn’t), a stack of boxes filled with cooling potions and wakefulness potions, as well as enough first aid supplies to furnish a small hospital. Oliver took all this in quickly, wondering at the first aid kits and the meat, but brought his attention quickly back to the Wolf sitting in the centre of the room.
Blake Murphy had the kind of uncomfortable beauty of a model—all angles and planes with limited weight to throw behind them. He was lean and tall, with hair shaved short. His skin was dark as ebony and looked twice as soft. When he looked up at them, his hazel eyes glinted like carnelian stones. Oliver could see how even someone as prejudiced as Eloise Carmichael might have difficulty turning away from Blake. In fact the only thing marring his features at all were the streams of tears running down his face.
“Blake Murphy?” Connor asked, possibly for Oliver’s sake. There was no one else in the room, and Blake was curled around the only chair. He was sitting backward on it, his legs straddling the seat, his arms crossed over the back of it. It looked as though the chair was the only thing holding him upright, as it took a very visible effort for him to lift his head when they came in. He nodded at Connor, his eyes lingering only momentarily on Oliver. “We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Blake swallowed and shook, heaving several heavy sobs before he could manage to gather himself up enough to say anything. “About El—” but he didn’t seem to be able to finish the word. The rest of her name got caught in his throat, and he dropped his head again. Oliver took the opportunity to reach out with his senses, searching for Blake’s magical signature. It took a moment to sort through the intensity of the sadness lingering in the room, and the concentration of magical potions in storage made it a muddier feeling still. After a moment, Oliver pinpointed Blake’s signature—the snap of dead wood on a fire, the roar of an engine, newly printed paper and the flash of lightning. The senses were close to the signature at the crime scene, but not quite right. It was as though the signature at the scene was a perversion of these signatures. Oliver chewed on the inside of his cheek, his expression hard.
“Eloise Carmichael, yes,” Connor said, glancing over at Oliver. He looked angry, uncomfortable, and Oliver couldn’t blame him. But Oliver had seen his share of grown men crying. He’d seen women and children blank, sobbing, angry, disconnected—he’d even seen someone laugh, once, when given the news their brother had been killed. It was an uncommon reaction, but what else do you do when told your brother had been trampled to death by rampaging unicorns? Either you laugh or you break apart—though in a way, laughing is breaking apart.
“I fi
gured it was only a matter of time,” Blake said, the words rolling out of his mouth in a rush. Every word bled into the next. He seemed to want to force out what he meant to say quickly, afraid he wouldn’t make it to the end of the sentence.
“Did you know Eloise well?” Oliver asked, and Blake shot him another look. There was no heat in it, only a question.
“Wizard cop?” he asked. “I couldn’t tell either way. Can’t sm-sm-smell a thing.” He pulled a tissue from somewhere and blew his nose loudly.
Oliver chanced a glance at Connor, who was looking back at the door. Had Lane stayed to listen in? “I’m just here to help,” Oliver said, settling for a half-truth.
Blake looked up, suddenly more hopeful. “Did you know Eloise?” he asked, and Oliver’s heart cracked a bit. He was desperate for someone to comfort him, to commiserate in his grief, to understand his loss. He was reminded of Daniel Brown, drinking himself to death in the giant, empty Manor. “Not really,” Oliver admitted, and Blake flagged again, burying his face in his arms.
“I did,” he said, muffled slightly. “And she knew me.”
“Would you mind expanding on that?” Connor asked, his voice gentler than Oliver had heard it. It was smooth as always, but without the coaxing quality. He left the question bald, clear, without hint of ulterior motive. Maybe because Blake clearly knew their motives, there was no reason to hide them. “What exactly was your relationship?”
Blake fought to swallow the fresh wave of tears and lifted his head. “She was my lover, and I was hers,” he said, almost defiantly. Then, his eyes flickering to the collar around Oliver’s neck, he seemed to drop his defiance. “My consort, and in only a week’s time, she would have been my mate.”
Oliver’s mouth fell slightly open. He caught Connor’s eye, finding him looking just as surprised.
“Your mate?” Connor asked. “Had you—”
