Riggs was a good guy—even if he had terrible taste in friends—and I was genuinely thrilled he was joining our family. He made Carter happy, which meant I was happy too. Mostly.
But I couldn’t deny that Carter’s wedding made me a little melancholy too, which was why I’d left while the party was still in full swing and jumped online. I wasn’t a fan of too much socializing, even when I was in the best of moods, and my HOG life was way easier to deal with than my real life.
Now, I’d completed a scavenging quest through the Infernal Wood, my orc horde was surrounded by heart-shaped fairy lights, my villagers had enjoyed a champagne toast, and the pink and red fireworks had continued on for hours over the icepack townships.
I was satisfied that my HOG world was running smoothly, and it was officially time for me to get back to my real-world work—namely, investigating the security breach that had caused Riggs’s team to invade the calm quiet of my house. The sooner I figured it out, the sooner they’d all leave me to my peace and quiet… and my cheesecake brownies.
But the moment I clicked the key to switch programs, the edges of my monitor flashed, and a cultured British voice that I may or may not have created to mimic Henry Cavill’s said, “Good morning, sire. I regret to inform you that your internet speed is critically low.”
My internet?
Motherfucker.
I growled, then typed the keys that would turn on the security feed I’d installed on the first floor the day that the Champion Security invaders had arrived.
Sure enough, the bandwidth thief was sitting at my kitchen table, bold as you please, where he’d crafted himself a mini-lair complete with three monitors.
HogMasterHux.
The man who’d not only attacked me in a cranberry swamp upon first “meeting” me in Horn of Glory last summer, stealing every pip in my pack and all my health nuggets because “That’s how the game is played, HogDoc. Watch and learn.”… but who’d then had the absolute gall to not be an utter ignoramus with a face like a potato and hair like a troll doll when we’d met in real life.
Why should Jasper Huxley get to be a muscular, brilliant, sexy, crinkly-eyed Zac Efron look-alike with a smile so bright it could power a small city? It was utterly unforgivable.
Also, the man was way too well-groomed and well-rested for this hour on a Sunday, damn it.
“For fuck’s sake, Huxley,” I said into my comms and had the pleasure of watching Hux jump three feet as my voice broke the silence. “Why are you at my house at this hour?”
“Because according to Riggs, we work here now.” Hux scowled and addressed his words to the clock on the wall, then scowled harder and addressed the area by the refrigerator, unsure where my camera was. “And it’s not a house—it’s a fucking estate with ten billionty rooms. And unlike some people, I’m dedicated to my job, so I’m doing it. Go away.”
I growled again, off mic. Go away? When he was in my home?
I really hated it when people assumed I was a freeloader who lived in my family’s basement because I was too lazy to get a job and make money. I mean, I did live in the basement, but that was because I’d built my lair here. And I had plenty of my own money, both earned and inherited.
“Bold talk for a man who’d been working his Horn until I startled him,” I spoke into the mic in a bored voice. “And don’t try to pretend that you were on that Horn for work purposes, HogMasterHux, because I can see from here that the device sitting on that table is a blue star-sapphire third-gen Horn, and I know for a fact that the Horn device you’re supposed to be analyzing for Champ is a sparkly peach first-generation one.” Just to grind his gears, I added, “And I know this because I supplied the decoy Horn that saved the day on your mission, remember? I’m…” I paused for dramatic effect. “…kind of a hero.”
Smug? Moi? Maybe just slightly.
I could practically hear Hux’s molars squeaking. “I remember it a little differently,” he told the light fixture on the ceiling. “Now, go watch cartoons and let the grown-ups do their work.”
God, he was infuriating. I pushed my glasses up on my nose. “Stop stealing my fucking internet and maybe I will.”
“You can’t possibly need all of it,” he bit out—erroneously—addressing himself to the vase of Valentine’s Day roses in the center of the table. “What the hell was Champ thinking, making us work alongside a bunch of fucking civilians? If I have to spend one more day here, I’m quitting.”
“Quitting? Oh noes! Oh, gasp! Wherever will Champ find someone with your amazing skill set, Huxley? Oh, wait, no, I know. Amos Nutter has that overly aggressive alpaca who spits constantly. Betcha five bucks nobody would realize he wasn’t you for a full forty-eight hours.”