The Seelie flushes an ugly red. “Cobweb, sir.”
“Ah, so sorry.” Roark helps him to his feet
and gestures at the shots on the bar. “I must have mistaken you for a daft prick who intended to start a war.”
Crickets. A fucking chorus of them.
The three Seelie blanch, gazes darting from Roark’s unblinking stare. Roark lifts his hand, the backs of his fingers tapping gently against my pec, a movement somehow protective and territorial at the same time.
“After all, Cockweb, that is what would happen if any harm came to Smith.”
The lead Seelie scowls at the second, deliberate misuse of his name. “Is he under the protection of the Winter Court now? Is he aligned, Prince Lyne?”
The world grinds to a halt. It’s not that I didn’t see this coming; I just thought I had more time. Since I started at Mathers, I’ve always been pulled or drawn or dragged kicking and screaming into the fae world. I’ve always been tied to the Courts, to the Unseelie in particular, to the man standing beside me who smells of heather and winter.
Either I choose my side in this war, or it will be chosen for me. Either I decide to go quietly, or I raze the world when it comes to take me. No matter the choice I make, I will lose.
“No.”
I start at Roark’s low statement. He’s not a mind reader, yet that word doesn’t seem to be directed at the Seelie. It was too quiet, too controlled, too...gentle. He hasn’t dropped his hand from me.
“Smith isn’t aligned,” Roark continues, as if he hasn’t caught my full attention. “And he is not under the protection of the Winter Court.”
The Seelie tense, ready to order Roark to step aside. To avoid a full-on brawl, he’ll have to. I really shouldn’t be this drunk if I’m going to fight three against one, although the adrenaline is sobering me up nicely.
I lean my head down, enough so I can whisper in Roark’s ear, “It’s fine. I can take them.”
He ignores me. “Smith isn’t under the Winter Court’s protection,” he repeats. “He’s under mine.”
In this moment, I hate him. Hate his simple, confident statement said with such conviction that even I believe it. Hate him for making this personal, for claiming me in front of everyone. Hate that the ley line is burning brighter and hotter than any star because those words have simplified the world to the tiniest details: the dark hairline slashing into his pale skin, the barest weight of his fingers against my chest. His claim binds my heart with impossibly light chains, even though there’s no romance to be found in his words.
I. Am. Fucked.
“Does that make Smith’s place a little clearer?” Roark asks and the temperature drops enough my nipples tighten. Or, that’s my excuse, at least.
The Seelie don’t answer. They simply abandon the shots and the bar and leave me and Roark in this weird vacuum of awkwardness that sets my teeth on edge.
His fingers drop from me and I’d lament their loss, except Roark grabs my hand and drags me toward the emergency exit. The lack of attention from the other customers indicates he’s glamouring us as we leave, but I can’t figure out why.
Lust cools to near terror with ferocious speed.
“The drinks—” I protest, desperate to call for my friends’ attention or support or interference with the homicide I fear Roark’s about to commit.
“Fuck the drinks.”
I should stop. I’m bigger than him, not by much in height, but in bulk at least. If I set my feet, I could probably force him to let go of me. I could be stubborn and tell him to stop his fae Court bullshit and just fucking talk to me.
But that means I’d have to let go of him. Funny how such simple tasks can become so impossible when skin touches skin.
Outside, the air has the initial bite of a fall evening. Roark doesn’t seem to notice when he drags me out there. He mutters something under his breath after he slams the door shut and the ley line shies away from the magick binding that seals the door in place.
“Do I dare ask what you did to warrant such attention from King Oberon’s manservants?” he asks with lethal calm.
I swallow hard. “They work for Oberon?”
“Yes, Smith. They do. Part of his personal retinue.” He waits, somehow the darkest shadow in the alley.
Silence draws out until the tension screams and I squirm. “They saw us sitting together and decided to talk crap. And they were drunk.”