Page 100 of The Wolf Queen’s Curse

I break the spell. “Shall we try another round?”

“No one told me to do anything.”

“So it was entirely your idea to murder the Alpha of the Albion Pack?”

Her eyes widen in what looks like genuine shock. “What?”

Ann answers for me. “It would be the only way to do it—when he’s not with his enforcer or his mate. When he might fall asleep, exhausted, easily killed.”

“W—why would—?”

“Bishop is a new Alpha in a precarious situation. If he died, the Albion Pack would cease to exist, which might be exactly what your Alpha wants.”

“Doyle? No. Never. He wants to work with Mr. Daniels. How would killing him help?”

I cut in. “So it was Doyle who told you to seduce Bishop?”

“He would never do that.”

“So someone else did.”

“I tried to seduce your husband because I wanted to seduce him. That’s all. I made a mistake.”

Her voice has gone up several notches, and it has me looking at the door. She’s worried she’ll be overheard.

I cast a privacy spell, and then I tell her what I’ve done and that we can speak freely. Her look drips pure scorn.

“I have nothing to say,” she says. “Except that you are a fat cow who thinks she is a pretty heifer.”

I arch one brow. “Why would I want to be a pretty heifer? Why would anyone?”

“Your husband knew you were awake. Otherwise, he would have leapt on me like a starving hound on fresh meat.”

“You take that back. My mate isn’t a man-eater, and to say so is the height of insult.”

“You think you’re clever. You’re not. You’re a fat—”

“Did that work the first time? No. Try again.”

She seethes, and I snap the privacy spell and look at Ann.

“She thinks insults will get me to throttle her again,” I explain to my cousin. “Sadly, she’s very bad at it.” I look at Hanora. “You want bruises as physical proof that I tried to extract information from you, and you’re raising your voice so it’s clear you didn’t give me that information. Who are you afraid of?”

Hanora glares and lowers her voice to a hiss. “If I were afraid of someone, who do you think I’d be more afraid of? You or them?”

“We could call in Bishop,” Ann says.

Hanora only snorts. “Go ahead. I’ll take my chances with a tame lapdog over a rabid cur, thank you.”

I resist the urge to defend my husband. “We could help—”

“I don’t want your fucking charity.” She seems about to say more and then pauses a second before saying, “Treasure Island. Have you read it?”

Ann blinks at the non sequitur.

“I’m very fond of adventure stories,” I say. “That one has a distinct lack of women, but most do, sadly.”

“Mortui non mordent.”