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Arawn shot him a dark look. “Careful, bluotezzer.”
With a flourish, Rhun took a courtly bow. “Apologies, Your Divine Majesty.”
“You’re impossible,” Merle hissed through gritted teeth and elbowed Rhun in his side, her glare promising murder for her mate.
For a second, Hazel could have sworn the Demon Lord’s eyes flashed with laughter, like a flickering trick of the light, before his expression was once more inscrutable.
“I will leave you to the task of convincing your fellow Elders how fatal their continued faith in doomed allegiances will be,” Arawn said. “But make sure they understand it in time. I would hate to return from our trip to a witch community perished from partisan pride.”
Merle’s expression darkened. “And just how do you suppose we should accomplish that?”
“I am sure you will find a way, Sister.” Arawn’s smirk revealed exactly how much he enjoyed Merle’s cringe at his intimate address—it was a game he liked to play, Hazel had noted, using his status as the new family addition through his mating with Maeve to fluster Merle.
“Arawn,” Maeve admonished as she walked back into the kitchen at that very moment, having witnessed the last exchange.
Arawn faced her with a masterfully blank expression as she sat down next to Merle. “I am simply enjoying my new family relations. After all, I never had a sister before.”
“And to think,” Merle muttered while rubbing her forehead, “you’re the only brother I’ll ever have.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Rhun scratched his chin. “Theoretically, now that your father has recovered from being a living vegetable and is back to his senses, he could still sire another child. And if he manages to hitch himself to a nice demon lady and mates with her, he’d even regain a bit of his youth and could live quite a long while.”
Merle’s eyes widened at the same time a crash sounded from the game room.
“Dad?” Maeve called out, leaning toward the door from her seat on a barstool. “You okay?”
“Sure, yeah,” came a shout from the other room. Frank MacKenna cleared his throat. “I’m—uh—fine. Fine.”
“More siblings for me,” Arawn murmured under his breath with the sliest of smiles, and Hazel understood, for the first time, how Maeve could have fallen in love with him.
CHAPTER 9
6:57 p.m.
Six-fucking-fifty-seven in the evening, which meant it was now a minute later since Tallak had last checked. He gritted his teeth and slammed the closet door shut over the pile of dirty clothes he’d just chucked in there.
All right, the bedroom was clean. Fresh sheets, everything aired out, the floor visible instead of covered in heaps of worn clothing, the nightstand dusted. Dusted. He hadn’t done that since he’d moved in seven months ago.
The shower was scrubbed, same as the toilet, and he’d even bought some air freshener that claimed to smell like clean laundry. He scrunched up his nose. To him, the scent was cloying, but Hazel’s sense of smell was less sharp, and she’d probably appreciate it. The brand was the same one she used in the downstairs bathroom at the Murray mansion.
6:58 p.m.
Dammit. He had to stop checking the fucking time. It was still more than half an hour until sunset, and if he knew anything about Hazel, it was that she was literally the most punctual person he’d ever met. She’d be here at precisely the time the sun went down, and not a minute earlier.
If she came at all.
His stomach tightened. What if she forgot? Maybe he should have sent her a text, a pointed reminder. He released the breath he’d been holding. No, Hazel wouldn’t forget. She’d probably jotted this “appointment” down in her nifty little planner—color-coded, of course—even if in some cryptic acronyms so no one glancing at it would guess what it was.
He prowled over into the living room-slash-kitchen and picked up the last stray items lying on the bar top.
7:00 p.m.
He muttered a foul curse and pocketed his phone again.
But what if she changed her mind? What if she got cold feet, wouldn’t come after all? He briefly entertained the idea of marching over to the Murray mansion and dragging her out of the house if she dared cancel. She’d likely fry him on the spot for that.
A knock came at the door, and Tallak about dropped the mug he held.
Shit, she’s early, was all he could think in the second before the door opened—and in strolled Basil.
