fer me my seat because I was his better, but he needed me to sit down before he could continue.
I didn’t look at Brigit, but I wanted to. Instead, I claimed my seat next to Sig and glanced at him, hoping he might give me some clue as to how I’d done. His face told me nothing, but once I turned away, he reached over and gave my hand a small squeeze. The action was completed with such graceful stealth that his hand was already gone by the time I turned my head to confirm it was there.
My mind was still swirling from the lingering traces of his touch, and it took me a moment to regain my composure and remember my young ward was being grilled by the elders.
“Do you feel you would serve the council well and abide by all the rules set forth by this, the council of elders, and by the Tribunal?” Hansel asked.
“I do,” Brigit replied, and I was impressed by her calm demeanor.
“Do you—?” Hansel’s next question was stopped midstream by Juan Carlos.
“Do you feel your position as a ward of one of the Tribunal leaders should allow you some sort of preferential treatment?” he demanded.
The calm that had washed over me with Sig’s touch disappeared in an instant. What was Juan Carlos doing? He’d had his chance to say what he wanted in private. This was not the place to make a scene.
“N-no.” Unease was apparent in her reply this time.
“Would you be here, asking us for this, if she hadn’t initiated the process?”
“I-I…don’t know.”
“Be honest with us, Miss Stewart.”
“But I—”
This time it was my turn to interrupt someone. “You’re out of line, Juan Carlos.” The gasps that ran down both sides of the room were definitely real, and not for dramatic impact.
The Spanish vampire gripped both of his chair arms, the wood creaking from the force of his grasp. “How dare—”
Sig raised a hand and silenced Juan Carlos’s protest. “My most sincere apologies to the council. From time to time, I’m afraid, my fellow Tribunal leaders forget themselves. Council Elder Hansel, do you believe the judgment can continue without Leaders Secret and Juan Carlos present?”
Both Juan Carlos and I stopped shooting each other death stares long enough to turn our attention to Sig. He was dismissing us? That was unheard of. All council decisions went before the whole of the Tribunal. Sure, he was the leader, but we were a governing unit.
“It would be most unconventional,” Hansel admitted, his words a subdued translation of the shocked expression on my face. When Sig did not reply, Hansel’s gaze darted nervously to the elder next to him, a female vampire named Rebecca with whom I was familiar.
“It may be in the best interests of the council to eliminate any further disturbances,” Rebecca suggested, her French accent making the entire statement sound very…proper.
“Tribunal Leaders Secret and Juan Carlos,” Sig said, looking from left to right. “You are excused.”
Chapter Eight
Excused.
Just like that, Juan Carlos and I were on the wrong side of the council chamber’s doors, having been shut out by an apologetic-looking warden. What had just happened? First Juan Carlos opened his stupid, deformed mouth, and now I had been kicked out of a meeting I’d requested.
“I hope you’re happy,” I snapped.
“Happy?” He was pacing the width of the corridor, the clip of his pricey leather shoes echoing against the polished stone walls. Clip-clop-clip turn. Clip-clop-clip stop. “I will never be happy as long as you’re involved.”
“What is your fucking problem?” In previous years, I would never have dreamed of being so coarse with him, but I was getting sick of his surly attitude, and we were technically equals now. But tell that to him and his massive ego, because he still treated me like dirty gum on the bottom of his shoe.
Juan Carlos got close, closer to me than he’d ever been in our seven-year acquaintance. He was mere inches away, and with him standing in front of me, the imposing size of his frame was evident for the first time. For years I’d only seen him seated. In fact, I could only remember seeing him on his feet once before this, and I had suffered too much blood loss to pay much attention to his build. Now with him towering over me—anger coming off him in tangible waves—it was hard to notice anything else.
“You,” he spat the word out. “You are my fucking problem.” Hearing the profanity spoken in his lingering Spanish accent with his hatred unrestrained in his tone and his rough masculine voice barely able to maintain a whisper, I shuddered.
“I haven’t done anything to you.”
“You exist. That’s bad enough.”