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“That’s what it smells like from here. She stenches like she’s wearing your faeborn clothes—flowers, dirt, Shadow blood, and… dandelions.” Her gaze darted up to Mor for a moment at the last one. “Now, don’t ever airslip in here again. It’s against the rules we made with your brothers.” The woman slid her needle out and held up her work—a single thick blue mitten.

Violet watched a muscle feather in Mor’s jaw. He seemed to think better about leaving. “If you didn’t want us to visit, then why did you move your foul-smelling faeborn store right across the street from our café?” he growled.

A younger woman with a long red braid snorted. “To make sure you stay in line. And especially to make sure you don’t blow our cover, you faeborn fool,” she said as she twirled her long needle over her fingers.

“And to watch over Kate, of course.” The old woman began unwinding a fresh strand of blue yarn. “I don’t have an ounce of faith in you male assassins to keep her safe. That Prince of yours is an idiot.”

Mor took a threatening step toward the old woman, forcing all the needles to return to his throat. “Watch your tongue—”

“We stayed hidden here for more faeborn years than I care to remember now, and the first chance the North Prince got, he started an online cooking show,” the old woman cut him off again and snorted. “Queensbane, if I thought my fairy goddaughter would listen to me, I never would have allowed her to get betrothed to that wicked fairy who killed so many of my sisters as we fled.”

Mor released a heavy breath and unclenched his fists. He turned toward Violet and grabbed her by her sleeve-covered shoulder. “I think we’ve had enough. Forget the faeborn sweater.”

He guided Violet to the door, reaching to shove it open in front of her, and he pushed her out into the warm street. Cars puttered by and faint chatter drifted from nearby places. The door slammed shut behind them.

“Where in the world did you just take me?” Violet asked as Mor guided her down the sidewalk.

“A knitting club of pompous, crabby females. That’s all you need to know,” he grumbled.

Violet looked back toward the store. A pink sign hung out front that said: YARN & STITCH.

“They’re giving me an extra-icy shoulder because I hid an enchanted cricket in their store a while back. It chirped for seventeen days without ceasing. It nearly drove them faeborn mad when they couldn’t find it.” A shadow of a smile crossed his face, seeming to ease his mood.

“I actually can’t tell if you’re joking,” Violet admitted.

“It’s not a joke. They moved in across the street, and we didn’t like it. And despite our asking politely, they wouldn’t move away, so I hid the cricket,” was all he said to explain. “And now that you know what I’m capable of, Human, perhaps you should consider showing some respect to your new boss?” He cast her a look with a brow raised.

Violet released a grunt. “Because of a little cricket?”

The Master of Doom’s lip curled. “I can do far worse things than hide a cricket, Violet Miller. It’s best you know that.” He turned his attention ahead as they crossed the street.

Violet glanced back at Mor when he wasn’t looking, considering that. She rubbed her temples, feeling like it was all too much to take in at once—the job, the knitting club, literal talk of enchanted crickets. The fact that Mor said she wouldn’t survive the next twenty-four hours if she couldn’t get rid of his scent. She wanted to go home, drink tea, and take a bath full of fresh rose petals and peppermint leaves so she could think everything through.

Mor stopped before a quaint café with a purple awning. He finally released her shoulder when he opened the door, and a flood of chatter told Violet the café was packed full.

Her gaze fell on a pair of pointed ears inside the café, and Violet stopped walking, causing Mor to bump into her back. He leapt away before their skin could brush.

An athletic-looking guy—the one with the pointed ears along with a styled sweep of pure white hair—turned toward them at the sound of the bell. His face broke into a wide, stunningly attractive smile that made Violet forget where she was.

He was another one of them—this guy with nice hair and a smile for days. He was like Mor.

Mor nudged Violet into the café, and she staggered forward on her heels. She pushed a lock of her hair behind her ear when the white-haired guy came over. A burgundy apron hugged his torso.

“Nice haircut,” Mor muttered at him. “Looks like you forgot to leave enough fur to cover your faeborn ears.”

“If it isn’t our brother who disowned us,” the white-haired guy said, beaming. He looked around quickly, then reached for something on a nearby table.

“I’d never be so lucky,” Mor returned.

“Who’s this?” the white-haired guy asked as he extended a golden-topped butter tart to Violet on a flat hand. “For you, pretty human,” he said. Violet fought a strange smile and reached to take it, athank youon the tip of her tongue.

“She’s my secretary.” Mor smacked the white-haired guy’s hand and the tart tumbled to the floor in a tasty looking heap. “And don’t you dare feed her the butter tarts, you fool. I’m warning you, Shayne.”

Violet’s jaw dropped as she stared at the ruined dessert. She turned to scold Mor, but the white-haired guy—Shayne—spoke first.

“I’m just trying to make sure she comes back here.” He winked at Violet. “Don’t keep her all to yourself, you greedy hogbeast,” he said to Mor.

Shouting lifted from the back of the café, and Violet’s gaze darted to a tall, turquoise-eyed guy behind the counter. He was going on about a wedding cake, talking over everyone else in the room.