Page 17 of Hybrid Heroics

The woman rushed forward, and my shoulders tensed, waiting for the attack that never came.

She wrapped her arms around York’s neck, hugging him tightly as she sighed. “Why are you here? You shouldn’t have come.”

“Why?” he pressed, gently placing her on her feet. “You keep saying that, but you haven’t given me a reason.”

“Something has changed, York.”

Her sharp jawline wobbled and clenched, like she was trying to hold herself together. She tucked her bright yellow hair behind her ears; the roots fading to the same ebony as York’s short crop. Her coral lips pursed as her glossy eyes turned cold.

It was the smattering of freckles that caused the lightbulb to pop up over my head.

“Is this your cousin?” I asked the druid.

“What makes you think that?” she dryly joked. “Our skin color?”

“No,” I assured her. “Truthfully, it was the freckles, and now the attitude.”

She studied me for a moment, then frowned. “Sorry. I’ve had a rough interaction or two with wolves.”

“How do you know what I am?” It was the only thing I could think of to change the subject.

I hadn’t meant to sound any way other than curious. York had talked of his cousin, Sterling, and her love of changing her hair color on a whim.

I wondered if Sloane would wake up in time to see someone wearing this highlighter yellow with ease, as if it were a natural shade. Our mate had an odd hatred for the color, though it was hard to blame her after finding out Dolyn had fucked up an experiment that dyed her skin.

It looked good on Sterling, though.

“I assumed,” she answered, her expression a mask of politeness. “And you smell like a dog.”

Palmer snorted, and that caused a chain reaction of cackles and chortles for the guys. York turned to grin at me as he rested his arm over Sterling’s shoulders. With her standing at his side, I knew she was an inch or so shorter than our mate, but she had just as much bite.

“Fair point,” I calmly replied. “You smell like a tree.”

“I would hope so. I am a dryad,” she jeered. “What are you? Corgi? Poodle?”

“A dire wolf,” York replied as he tried to hold his laughter at bay.

“I’m glad you’re finding this funny,” I told him, nodding my head at Sloane. “But can we get moving?”

He filled his cheeks with air, blowing harshly before he peered down at his cousin. “We’re going to the palace to—”

“No, you’re not,” she interrupted, walking closer to look at Sloane. “Something is going on here, York. If she’s sick, you can’t take her to the palace right now.”

“Why not?” he challenged.

“Take her to Mom. Their house is closer, and they’ll have room for all of you to stay.” She shook her head, tracing her finger lightly up Sloane’s arm, over the vine-like pattern. “Your mate has never been here. Did the marks hit her that hard?”

“No,” I informed her.

The druid nodded in agreement. “The marks didn’t do that. And she’s not sick.”

“She’s unconscious?” Sterling inquired, seeming like she needed the right answer or we were fucked. “Is she dead? Please tell me she’s not dead.”

“She’s alive,” he said in exasperation. “Gods, Sterling. She’s in a stasis, but she’ll wake up soon.”

“What do the marks mean?” Palmer asked the snippy dryad. “She got them because she’s mated to York, and I assume you have them because you’re part of his family, but—”

“Druid royals gain them as they grow in power,” she said, repeating York’s explanation. “They hurt like hell for a minute, and then it’s gone. They don’t translate into anything, though. They’re individualized. No two royals have the same pattern.”