‘Like hell she will.’ Mal turned, his words a twisted snarl. ‘She’s mine, Ronan.’
She ignored the subtle charge of his claiming her. Little point in reveling in a pretense. ‘You know this fringe?’
Ronan dropped his hand and hooked a thumb in the waistband of his leather pants. An unwanted thrill rippled through her. Curse her fickle blood. No, curse Mal. Until he pierced her skin and truly became her patron, she’d waver every time a new set of fangs showed themselves.
‘Yeah, he knows me.’ Ronan leaned in and smiled. His fangs weren’t as long as Mal’s. The fire inside her cooled a bit. ‘Which is why he’s not going to fight me over you. Not to mention I’m head of security here now.’ He grabbed her bicep and hauled her forward.
Mal grabbed her other arm and yanked back.
‘Hey!’ She jerked her arm from Ronan’s grasp, falling hard into Mal. The sacre made contact again and he sucked in sharply. She moved away quickly but still stayed close. Maybe she should unsheathe the weapon and dissect this fringe’s C1 and C2 vertebrae. Holy mother, she wanted to hit something. The need to lash out coiled in her muscles.
Mal held her hand. Possessively. Like she was his property. Which, technically, she was. ‘I don’t care what you’re the head of. Touch her again and I’ll kill you.’
Ronan laughed. ‘You mean you’ll try. Don’t forget who came out of the Pits a victor, old man.’ He reached for Chrysabelle a second time.
‘Things have changed since those days, whelp.’ Mal’s fist slammed Ronan’s head back, dropping him before the fringe made contact. Mal curved his arm around her, gently moving her behind him as Ronan shot to his feet.
Her sense of relief didn’t last long.
Fingers lifted a section of her hair. ‘Pretty.’
She spun and came face to face with a male version of Satima. Sweet sunlight. Another haerbinger. At least he couldn’t make skin contact thanks to the flesh-colored leather covering his hands. Henna runes decorated his arms but turned into a swirling phoenix design on his bare chest.
‘Don’t get any ideas, haerbinger.’ Her fingers itched for her wrist blades.
Mal glanced over his shoulder. ‘Pasha only drinks from Satima.’
Chrysabelle studied the new fae. A subtle glow that had nothing to do with the club’s lighting system emanated from his eyes. ‘Are you … ?’
‘Gemini?’ Pasha smiled, his teeth as sharp and white as a wolverine’s. ‘Yes, I am.’
Chrysabelle shuddered, ignoring the scuffling going on behind her. Paradise City just got better and better. ‘That makes Satima your twin.’ No wonder he only drank from her.
Gemini haerbinger were rare. When twin haerbinger fae were born, one twin carried the power to read futures while the other carried no power at all, but unless the gifted twin’s blood remained pure, the gift would be lost. Which meant feeding from the ungifted twin. Usually, the ungifted twin killed the other.
Before Pasha could respond, Satima sidled up to him, sliding her arms around his waist and pressing the length of her body against him. She kissed his neck and winked at Chrysabelle. ‘Dominic will see you now.’
‘Very good.’ Freaks. She turned to get Mal. He was holding Ronan off the floor by his throat. ‘Satima said—’
‘I heard.’ Jerking his arm, he threw Ronan into a flank of low couches, scattering patrons. Mal smoothed his coat. ‘After you.’
They followed Satima and Pasha until it became clear the twins were taking them to the door to Wrath.
‘There are other ways to Dominic’s office.’ Mal’s voice grated with an undercurrent of anger.
Satima shrugged. ‘He asked me to bring you this way.’
Liar, Chrysabelle wanted to shout. Even without the true connection of patron and comarré, she could feel Mal’s discomfort. Was there something behind that door he feared or was it the temptation of wrath itself? She reached for his forearm and gave the corded muscle a squeeze.
Satima laughed. ‘How touching. Look, Pasha, the pretty one seeks to reassure her master. So precious.’
Chrysabelle snatched her hand back. ‘Take us to Dominic. Now.’
Pasha’s grin softened. ‘Or what? You’ll get us drunk on your blood?’
‘Enough.’ Mal silenced the twins. He shot a dark glance at Chrysabelle, but she refused to acknowledge his displeasure. So touching him was the wrong thing to do. It wouldn’t happen again.
‘Fine.’ Satima sniffed. They didn’t stop until they stood before the scarred metal door to Wrath and its fae guard.
Mal cursed under his breath then nodded. ‘Mortalis.’
The shadeux fae notched his head slightly to one side, his murky green eyes unblinking. His six-fingered grip tightened around one of the blades tucked into his belt. ‘Malkolm.’
Chrysabelle had never seen a real live shadeux, only drawings. The horns that curled from his forehead down to his jaw line had been capped in filigreed silver, but their points were as sharp as daggers. He was charcoal-blue wherever leather didn’t cover skin, and the high-pointed tips of his ears, also capped in filigree, peaked through his ebony shag. The hilts of a matched pair of fae thinblades jutted over his shoulders. His stormy-sea eyes shifted to her. ‘Comarré.’
She lifted her chin slightly. This creature would not cow her, no matter that his visible blades outnumbered her hidden ones. ‘Shadeux.’