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There was a low rumbling from some of the other wolves and Derrick eyed them, his own growl drowning them out in the space of three painful heartbeats. My pinky finger twitched.
“The CEB does not tolerate forcibly removing people from their homes,” Derrick continued. “As a Constable, I will not allow you to take her. So you’re going to reverse whatever it is you’ve done and we’ll deliver Miss Grayson safely home. Am I understood?”
I took back every bad thought I’d had about Derrick. He was a prince. A handsome, wonderful, lycanthrope prince, and I prayed he could get us out of here safely.
“I told Ms. Maureen you’d side with the CEB,” Smug said, not threatened by Derrick’s arm bar across his chest. “The moment they slapped those tattoos on you, you got yourself a new pack.”
Derrick shoved the man, pushing him half off the ground and levering him against the wall. In unison, the fellow wolves took a step forward, advancing on Derrick with clear intent. If Derrick noticed, he didn’t do anything to stave them off.
“You don’t get to talk to me about loyalty to the pack,” Derrick said.
Smug-man gave an ugly smile. “If that’s true, why did Maureen listen?”
Derrick wavered for a fraction of a second, which was all Mr. Smug needed. The ugly smile turned to a gloat, and he said, “She had us take out an insurance policy for you.”
That sounded ominous and by the frozen expression on Derrick’s face, I could sense the tide turning.
My index finger curled, and I breathed in relief. The spell was wearing down. Or at least the immobility portion of the spell was, I still couldn’t bring the aether to view and I couldn’t sense the emotions in the room.
Not that I needed empathy to read the tension swirling around us. Derrick’s silence was louder than my own thundering heartbeat and his body language screamed of violence barely held in check. His arm and shoulder muscles were taut as he kept the man levered against the wall.
“It’s tragic what happened to your parents,” Smug said. “Your Mum was never the same, was she?”
Derrick let out a growl so intense it raked up my spine with its ferocity. In a blink, he yanked Smug from the wall and slammed him into the floor. The whole room rattled under the impact and the other wolves took a hurried step back. I lost sight of Derrick, but I could hear him smashing Smug against the floor over and over as he ground out the words; “What. Did. You. Do?”
The reply was no longer smug, more wheezy and dazed, but laced with a dangerous chuckle. “We got someone watching your Mum, that’s all. So long as you’re compliant, she’ll be right as rain.”
There was that word again: compliant.
I’d known Derrick all of an hour and the last word I’d used to describe him was compliant. I wasn’t sure I’d call him polite.
He was, however, intelligent. And he had his temper in check enough to recognize the trap he was in. His growl turned into a shout, then a scream as he lifted Smug and threw him across the room. The werewolf’s body soared over my bed and crashed into the far wall, shattering a mirror and breaking through drywall before collapsing to the floor.
The other wolves seemed to think better of charging Derrick because they took another staggered step back, inching their way to the door. From what I had read on werewolf tempers, the fact that Derrick did not pursue Smug-Face when his comrades helped him to the exit was a fantastic display of restraint. Most wolves maimed their opponents, guaranteeing there would be no future challenge to their place in the hierarchy. But Derrick planted himself at the foot of the bed, directly in my view, and stared the wolves down until they left.
I managed to make a fist and tried again to reach my magic. There was a blip in my vision, the aether showing itself and disappearing in the next instant, and I exhaled. Whatever rune they cursed me with was keeping me from magic, and fear buzzed through my body.
I needed my magic, and I needed it now. I could make my own runestone and curse those werewolves with hallucinations for a day or give them each a horrible phobia of germs. There were countless possibilities if I could just access the aether.
When we were alone, Derrick’s shoulders remained tense, and he continued to gaze at the closed door. I couldn’t see his face, but his stance was fierce to behold, and no wonder. What little I remembered of my own mother told me all I needed to know about the position Derrick was in. But he couldn’t really give in to them, could he? He was a constable, for Maker’s sake. He gave an oath to protect Bright folk.
Of course, his mother was also Bright.
The epitome of a rock and a hard place: oathbound to rescue both the stranger and his family. Things were not looking good for me.
My elbow bent and all at once the freezing spell shattered. It tinkled around me like shards of glass as I broke free and sat up gasping. For several dazed seconds I stayed there, rubbing my throbbing palm, and watched Derrick’s back.
“Are you all right?” Derrick asked.
He still wasn’t looking at me, and his body was taut like a bow nearing release. When I didn’t respond he turned to look at me, his expression grim. The angles of his face caught shadows from the yellow glow of hotel lamps, but I could see the frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. He was still in the aviator jacket, though it was peppered with a white dusting of drywall now, and his boots made a familiar scuffing thump as he walked to my side.
“Did they hurt you?” He asked, his gaze flicking to where I massaged my palm.
“Yes and no,” I said.
His eyebrow lifted and he reached for my hand, taking it between his own without asking. I watched my smaller fingers disappear under his hands, felt the steady pressure of his thumbs as he began searching for the runestone. I could sense it there, settled in the center of my palm, and wasn’t the least surprised when he found the outline under my skin. He let out a heavy sigh and traced the inch-wide stone with one finger.
Because he hadn’t said anything, and because I hadn’t answered him, I tried explaining. “Getting cursed hurt, but they didn’t do anything else.”
