Page 3 of Their Wicked Cage
“I need your help,” I say, gesturing to the bartender for a drink. He lifts his chin, and I tell him, “Any kind of wine that doesn’t taste bitter.” He nods, and I add, “The whole bottle.”
“The whole bottle?” Avaline leans against the bar, propping her head up with her hand, and a perfumed scent wafts over me—honeysuckle and pine. “Well, you’ve surely piqued my interest. What is it you need my help with?”
“Locating someone.”
The bartender slides me an empty glass and an open bottle of wine. I reach for the latter, fill the glass to the brim, and take a sip. A flavorful burst of sun-ripened cherries spills across my tongue, and I’m relieved to be free of the lingering taste of chalky wheat.
She offers her empty glass to me. “Care to share?”
“No,” I say. “Never have, never will.”
“That’s not very nice, considering you need my help.” She mock-pouts as she gestures to the bartender. He tops off her glass with a berry-color liquid, then heads into the back through the same door Carver used earlier. “Who are you searching for, Supreme Riven?” She takes another sip, licking her wine-stained lips. “I can’t imagine you with a soulmate... then again, matchmaking and locating lost souls is my specialty, so I suppose I understand why you’ve sought me out.”
Her words scrape against an unspoken longing, buried deep in my chest, echoing feelings I’ve never voiced aloud.
I can’t imagine myself with a soulmate either.
Especially not with—
No.
Not going there.
“That’s not what I need help with,” I say tightly.
“Forgive me, but could you speak plainly? If not your soulmate, who would you like me to locate?”
I take another sip of wine before I say the name of the witch I so desperately need.
“Gwyn Halethorne.”
The color drains from Avaline’s cheeks as she slides from the stool, putting at least a foot of distance between us. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”
“Avaline—”
“She said she can’t help you, Riven,” says a cold, male voice. And, because my luck is absolute horseshit, I glance behind the bar to find Carver standing there. He folds his arms across his chest, fixing his darkened gaze on Avaline. “I found your brother, Ava. He was out cold in the alley. Claims two males attacked him.” The vampire’s dark eyes drift from me to where Arkyn is indiscreetly watching us from the booth. “Says he broke one of their noses.”
Fuck.
Arkyn disappears into the crush of patrons.
Confusion contorts Avaline’s doll-like features. “You attacked my brother? Why?”
That is an excellent question.
I wanted Carver and her brother out of the way so I could speak to Avaline alone. If anyone else learned of the blight affecting the Fae Isles—my own people, potential enemies, or anyone likely to spread rumors—it could spark fear, chaos, or worse. I couldn’t risk the kingdom appearing weak—not to Avaline, not to her companions, and certainly not to anyone they might tell.
Any potential leaks are a threat.
And I knew I couldn’t make a move against Carver because of his closeness to Quill, so we formulated a plan to subdue her brother and bait Carver out of the tavern for a few minutes.
I hadn’t intended for her brother to get hurt, but it all happened so fast. The satyr had grabbed the first thing he could find in the alley—a loose piece of rock—and struck Arkyn in the face. I merely reacted with less force, knocking him out while a stream of filthy curses flew from Ark’s mouth.
“That,” I say carefully, “was a misunderstanding.”
“A misunderstanding?” she asks, disbelief and distrust coloring her tone.
“Arkyn startled him; he struck Ark with a rock, and I intervened.”
