If he wanted to take her to his clan, he would have to physically drag her there.
Always assuming she didn’t follow through on her threat to turn him into a toad.
“Oh, hell,” he growled, pulling his cell phone from his pocket.
“What are you doing?”
He scrolled through his contacts, then swiftly typed in his message.
“Sending a text to Cyn.”
She eyed him warily. “What’s a Cyn?”
“Not a what. A who,” he explained. “He’s clan chief of Ireland.”
The wariness only deepened. “Why are you contacting him?”
“He’s an expert on the fey.”
She glanced at the box he still held in his hand. “Why don’t we just find one of the fey?”
He curled his lips to reveal his fangs. “Because I don’t trust them.”
She folded her arms around her waist, the tug on her sweatshirt molding the fabric against the soft curve of her breasts.
“And I don’t trust vampires.”
He struggled not to be distracted by the thought of stripping off the sweatshirt to expose the exquisite beauty beneath.
“Do you believe I would deliberately try to hurt you?” he bluntly demanded.
“I—”
“The truth.”
She hesitated, clearly reluctant to admit that she might have the smallest faith in him.
“No,” she at last muttered.
“Then trust that—”
His soft words were rudely interrupted as the gargoyle stomped his way into the room, his tail twitching.
“Ha.”
Roke glowered at the unwelcome intruder. “What now?”
“I have sensed her,” Levet announced.
“Sensed who?”
“Yannah.”
Sally stepped toward the gargoyle in surprise. “She’s returned?”
“Non, but I can track her.”
Roke’s annoyance abruptly faded. It was about damned time.