mate clearly believed that she wasn’t on Maeve’s inventory of shifters who had to die—or that she wouldn’t remain on it once her assignment was completed, once Hadrian was dead.
Hadrian had his doubts. He suspected the Dark Queen had been deliberately deceptive and that the so-called bargain could only end badly for his mate. If anything, that only made him feel more protective of her. How could he convince her of the truth, before he was toast? He admired her loyalty but wished it hadn’t been misplaced.
And whose ring was this? The chain had snapped when she’d vanished and Hadrian still had the ring in his hand, the broken chain hanging from it. It was a man’s ring, obviously, which made Hadrian wonder who had owned it. Father? Brother? Lover? Son? Friend? Each option prompted its own questions.
He’d thought at first that it was silver, but on closer examination, realized it was platinum. There was a single large stone in the setting. It could have been an opal or a moonstone, if not for that glow. He was sure a flame crackled in the heart of the stone, which he didn’t think was possible. Was it magick?
He knew it was a particularly fine stone even though he wasn’t a jeweler. He did have an affinity with the element of earth and the stone whispered to him of its own splendor, its size and clarity, its color and the commanding flicker of that inner light. It didn’t confess what kind of stone it was, though. Where had she gotten it?
Why did she keep it? That was the important question. It didn’t fit her fingers. Was she planning to return it? Or was it a memento?
Hadrian doubted his mate was sentimental, so this ring had to be about something else. Maybe it was a trophy from someone she’d killed. Her first assassination perhaps. Maybe it was from the man who had betrayed her or abandoned her, the one whose rejection or departure had made her prey to Maeve’s plot. Was the original bearer alive or dead? Had it belonged to one of her cursed brothers? He could envision it as a family piece, with the feathers etched into the sides of it.
Hadrian wished he knew.
He doubted his mate would tell him. He put aside the broken chain and tried the ring himself. It fit the index finger on his left hand, and once he’d pushed it on, it fit so well that he couldn’t pull it off. He supposed that meant it was safe there.
And if she wanted to retrieve it before she killed him, her efforts would definitely wake him up. That ring wasn’t coming off easily.
Hadrian didn’t want to consider that she might just slice off his finger. On the up side, though, that would wake him up, too.
How long would it be before she returned? He doubted it would be long. He guessed that she was someone who stuck to a task until it was done. He doubted he could stay awake much longer, but somehow he had to do it.
What did his mate’s bargain with Maeve mean about his firestorm? Did Maeve’s involvement mean that Alasdair could have been wrong? Hadrian hadn’t known his parents at all, but he was curious to verify what Alasdair remembered about their firestorm.
He wanted to double-check that his own firestorm was real before he made any more choices.
Assuming that he actually had the chance to make them.
It was almost dawn. Maybe Alasdair was waking up.
He’d make some coffee in the kitchen and maybe encourage him to do so.
Rania landed hard in the middle of her own kitchen. The house was dark and cold, since she hadn’t been there in a while. The back of her neck was sore and she raised a hand to discover that her necklace was gone. Hadrian must have held on to the ring which made the chain snap.
The loss shook her, as did the fact that she’d failed again. She hadn’t just hesitated this time—she’d talked to him. She’d been curious. She’d been tempted and charmed. What had he done to her? Rania didn’t care about anyone else. She was alone and always had been. Self-reliant. Indifferent to others.
But she wasn’t indifferent to Hadrian MacEwan. Why not?
The bizarre thing was that she felt so different. She felt more than emotional and volatile, more than jangled and uncertain. Desire hummed through her body, insistent in its demand that she surrender to sensation. She’d never experienced such yearning before.