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But even so … she couldn’t tear her eyes from the female's intention. Not when she planted the bourbon on the table. Not when she pressed a cocked hip against it.

Not when Garrik’s breathing went unnaturally uneven because a pale hand had fallen to his and slowly, disarmingly, inched up his arm.

An iron rod shoved into Alora’s spine, feeling the air heat around her.

Garrik wasn’t moving. He was barely breathing.

Something tormented flashed in his eyes as his skin blanched.

That exploring hand turned into two. Both were on his shoulders, massaging gently while the female’s lips moved.

Then, she sat on his lap, leaned close to his ear, whispered.

Alora felt her skin tighten, rippling with heat. Uncontrollable—strange—dangerous heat.

It felt as if the entire tavern would ignite.

Her feet were moving before she could stop them. Every table in the bar a blur. Alora didn’t know what she was going to do, but that female was touching him, and all she knew was that she didn’t like it.

Feet before she was going to thread her fingers into the barmaid's hair, Garrik’s deep, menacing voice growled, “Do not touch me.” In a pointed thrust of his hands, the barmaid slipped from his lap, her arm knocking over his glass in the process,

She stumbled away with confused, widened eyes.

“Fetch me another,” was all he said, staring at the bourbon dripping from the table.

The female quickly peddled away.

Alora watched as a small tendril of shadow overtook his toppled glass. When it misted away, the glass had been nearly half-filled, and in an instant, the High Prince downed it. Another shadow whorled, repeating the same until his glass was half-filled again.

Then again.

“You have to fly us back tonight,” she warned, her critical gaze drifting over him as she stepped around his chair, dropping back into hers.

He was lifting it again, so she outstretched her hand to stop him, but he pulled away.

“I will be fine,” Garrik retorted and emptied the glass.

She frowned. “Are you okay?” Her eyes flickered to the barmaid preparing him a new glass behind the counter.

At last, the glass settled on the table, and this time it didn’t refill. His mouth opened, seeming as if he would speak, but instead it morphed into a forged smile. “Never better.”

Alora furrowed her brows, reclining back in the chair. Scanning his body, his face, she knew he was lying. But even if she asked again, she knew he wouldn’t tell her the truth. Instead, she merely raised her tankard to her lips, swallowing down the less-than-satisfying liquid when footsteps scraped across the wooden floor.

The female had returned and settled Garrik’s new glass in front of him. Her shifting movements betrayed her discomfort, her eyes desperate for the solace of the bar. “Apologies, sir, but there’s a male requesting your attention.”

Garrik’s head tilted, following the female’s gaze, grinding his teeth as irritation rippled across his features. “Requests my attention,” he repeated. This time, hostile amusement brightened his face. “Have him come to me. I require a moment.” And he dismissed her with a sharp flick of his wrist before deeply inhaling, facing Alora.

Alora stiffened, pivoted to the bar, and regarded a cloaked figure lifting a tankard with his back toward them. As his arm lifted, his cloak slid down somewhat, pulling away from his skin and revealing unfamiliar inked patterns lining his porcelain wrist and hand.

“Who is he?” she asked, watching as the female gently cupped the male’s shoulder and whispered in his ear.

Glowing bloody crimson eyes turned toward their table, and she ripped her glance away.

Garrik’s voice dropped to a concealed murmur. “One of our spymasters.”

The sound of footsteps drew near as wooden legs scraped across the floor, and Garrik stood. The icy chill of his palm brushed Alora’s chin, drawing her attention up at him. “Wait here. I will return shortly.”

She reluctantly nodded as those cold fingers lightly brushed from her skin, warring off the sudden ache of missing that coldtouch as he turned and greeted the cloaked male with nothing but his own nod.