Now that she thought about it, Brochan and his fellow winged Fallen Ones hadn’t sported an aura. Why? What did it mean?
“Hey, sexy—” someone called.
“No,” she said without pause. Not him, not him. Not—hmm. Him? Her steps slowed as she examined the male more thoroughly.
He perched alone at the end of the bar, nursing a drink. His head hung with dejection. The soft glow of his aura revealed a tortured soul steeped in misery. Dark spots grew from the edges. Death had already sunk sharp hooks into his future.
She peered closer at him. No oily residue marred his aura, suggesting an immortal disease, yet she knew he only had two weeks. Maybe three. He was going to die. Why not gift him with the best week of his life? Seven days of stimulating conversation, laughs, and kindness before she claimed his immortality and jetted, leaving him to die as a mortal rather than an immortal. Or seven hours. Yes, she liked that timeframe better. He would too probably.
I’m practically a humanitarian. His family should thank her for her services. At the very least, they should offer her endless gifts of homage. Something Brochan should have done.
Her chest tightened again. What if things had been different? What if she hadn’t killed the Fallen One? What if she’d explained how perilously close McCadden had stood at the cliff between life and death before she stepped in instead? Would he have thanked her for her actions? Not that she cared. So the tightening worsened. So what? A bout of heartburn, most likely. No big deal. Moving on.
Yes, she’d found her man. Excitement without a single hint of guilt—not even the slightest drop, honest!—fizzed in her veins. Wearing a slinky white dress with a super-short hem and a deep vee to best display her ample cleavage, she sauntered over.
She slid into the chair beside him and offered a greeting with a voice as potent as an erotic caress. “Hello, handsome.”
He jolted, startled before shifting his gaze to her. Frowning, he pointed to his chest. “Me?”
“Why not you?” she asked with the world’s most enchanting laugh. As much as she disliked the necessity of this, she also kind of enjoyed it. Flirting freely, earning adoration. Interacting with others. Living! Everything she’d been denied while whiling away the years in each of her prisons.
Leave the past in the past. “I’m Viola, your newest obsession. And no, you’re not dreaming. I’m not some figment of your imagination.” She offered him a dazzling smile and traced a fingertip across his brow, leaving a spiritual mark only she and Fluffy could sense, ensuring easy tracking if they got separated. “I’m here, and I’m real.”
He peered at her, dazed—surely—allowing the touch without flinching or commenting. “I just want to be left alone, ma’am.”
Ma’am. Ma’am? He dies today!
Think of Fluffy. Deep breath in. Out. Viola curbed her murderous urges. But he deserved what was coming now, and that was that.
She pasted an even more dazzling smile. “If someone can’t charm you into changing your mind within a five-minute span, they’re a slacker. I’ll do it in four. Are you willing to give me a chance?”
His brow furrowed, his confusion obvious. “You wish to charm me? Why?”
She leaned closer, telling him, “Better question. Why wouldn’t I want to?” A strange sensation prickled on her nape, and she glanced up. Gasped. No way she saw what she thought she did. This…this…it was impossible. Wasn’t it?
“I don’t understand,” the wolfshifter said.
“Neither do I.” A trick of the light? Please be a trick.
The music stopped abruptly, every shifter in the spacious building halting. The once-headless Brochan stood at the back of the room, alive and well—and clearly incensed.
But, but… “I decapitated him. Like a boss,” she said, jumping to her feet. She wobbled on her towering stilettos. Was he a ghost, come to haunt her?
Brochan was shirtless, wearing only a pair of black leathers. Standard mythological warrior attire rather than ghostly. Although, other warriors wore boots. His feet were bare. His skin appeared a deeper shade of blue than before, his facial features sharper, and his wings larger. Her heart fluttered. Bone hooks protruded from the joints. Lethal danger radiated from him, chilling her.
Curses and threats rang out around him as her companion leaped to his feet.
“Get behind me,” he commanded, moving in front of her. “I will protect you.”
As if! No one protected her better than herself. A lesson she’d learned as a vulnerable child, courtesy of her mother.
As she stepped around him, the shifters roared their wrath over the unwelcome intrusion. Black shadows seeped from their pores, growing together to create a wolfish mask from head to toe.
The moisture in her mouth dried. No, no trick of light or ghost. He was here, he was real, and staring right at her.
How had Brochan recovered from a missing head? Not even she could do that, and she could do absolutely anything better than anyone, her talents and abilities unlimited.