had hit him—and he’d have no chance to persuade her to forget her oblication to Maeve.
By dawn, she’d be done.
Three
Why had Hadrian’s mate disappeared in that exact moment? Why would she sacrifice that pleasure?
Something else was more important.
Maybe she had doubts about the firestorm.
It only made sense that she might be uncertain about having his son. He’d lived his whole life waiting for the firestorm, but it was a big expectation to spring on someone within moments of meeting.
He recalled that ring on the chain around her neck and wondered if there might be another reason. Was she in love with another guy? Was that part of the reason she’d agreed to Maeve’s bargain? Or had her heart been broken so badly that she never wanted to get involved with anyone again.
When it came to his mate, Hadrian had questions for his questions. He pushed his hands through his hair, then frowned at the realization that it was the second time she’d disappeared. She’d vanished into thin air when they’d been fighting, too. Plus, an ability to spontaneously manifest elsewhere would explain how she’d gotten into his lair without tripping any alarms in the first place. The dragonsmoke wouldn’t have been an obstacle to her, but the plain old alarm system should have worked. Make that three times. Hadrian had to admit that he hadn’t been thinking clearly since arriving home, thanks to the firestorm and the fact that his mate was trying to kill him.
He had to lift his game or she might succeed.
Alasdair was sure the firestorm was real, but maybe she was deliberately using it against him. She might take advantage of how distracting it was. After all, she had motivation. She was trying to save herself and her twelve brothers. Hadrian could understand that.
He had to be ready when she returned. He pushed to his feet and picked up his clothes. Hers were gone, which meant she’d made some fast moves. He was impressed.
Where had she gone? There was no glow from the firestorm, so she wasn’t close. He supposed the possibilities were infinite—or close to it. She might even have gone to Fae. He had no idea.
When would she be back? Hadrian doubted he’d get a lot of warning when she did return. She’d probably manifest right beside him, a blade at his throat. His heart skipped. She was a hunter: she wouldn’t take the chance of the firestorm’s light announcing her approach.
But he had her knife. She’d definitely come back for her weapon.
She’d tried to retrieve it twice already.
He picked up the dagger and took it with him into the bathroom. If she wanted to reclaim this weapon, she’d have to fight him for it first.
He eyed his own reflection before turning on the shower, noticing how the kiss of death had changed. He turned his head and it caught the light. It looked like a piece of embedded jewelry, but its chill went right to his marrow.
Was the firestorm the reason it hadn’t worked? Or was it just working slowly? Hadrian wished he knew.
His mate might wait until he was asleep to attack. That’s what Hadrian would have done in her place. He’d have to be both lucky and fast to evade her then.
He had to find a way to improve his chances of survival.
What if he didn’t survive? Under a hot stream of water in the shower, he forced himself to consider the worst case scenario, of dying soon, before satisfying the firestorm. What a waste that would be! But sadly, it wasn’t out of the range of possibilities.
He wasn’t going to wallow and he wouldn’t feel sorry for himself. He would make a plan and execute it—no pun intended.
He’d make every moment count.
The first thing Hadrian had to do was start replicating those gloves. If nothing else, he’d leave a legacy that counted. He called to the guys in old-speak as he dressed so they’d know they wouldn’t be interrupting anything when they returned to the house, then considered her dagger again.
Why this one?
Hadrian picked up the knife, testing the weight of it in his hand. It was a good weapon, well-balanced and beautifully made. It was ornate and unusual, and its characteristics might give him some insight into his mate.
“What’s that?” Balthasar demanded when Hadrian strolled into the kitchen. He was already making pasta and Alasdair was stirring sauce. They were both trying to avoid showing their curiosity, but Hadrian thought his lair reeked of their unasked questions.