Page 154 of Bitten & Burned

There was a pause. The kind where two men assess one another, not with fists or fangs, but posture and poise.

Then my father said, “Mercier. Any relation to the winemakers in the Euraline?”

“Not in a verylongtime, sir.”

My father looked amused. And he looked between me andAnton for a long moment. Too long. I hurried along to introduce Quil.

“This is Quil Ashborne.”

Quil stepped forward—not too close, just enough to be proper—and offered a slight bow that had been polished on borrowed time. Much more refined than Anton’s had been.

“Mr. Marlowe,” he said, voice lower and smoother than usual. “It’s an honor to meet the man responsible for Rowena’s finer qualities. She speaks of you often.”

I blinked. Where the hell had he been keeping that?

My father gave a short nod, visibly surprised. “Ashborne. Western Pines, if I’m not mistaken. The… hunters, are they not?”

“Indeed, but we’re not close anymore, sir.”

“Well, perhaps that’s for the best. I seldom hear good news about them anymore.”

“Neither do I,” Quil replied, glancing at me, his eyes level.

Oh, I was definitely going to bring this up later. There was something unmistakably enticing about him right now. And he was an ass for doing it in front of my father.

Before I could say another word, however, footsteps approached from behind us. I turned to see Vael approaching with Cassian and Dmitri in tow. Cassian looked stately, dressed in much more finery than I’d ever seen him in, and Dmitri was clean-shaven and sharply dressed as well—less shadow, more storm held barely at bay.

“Apologies for our tardiness,” Vael said softly.

My father turned towards them, eyes narrowing in quick succession. Calculating. Curious. Always measuring.

“This is Cassian Hale,” I said.

“Hale,” my father repeated. “Halemont?”

Cassian gave a respectful nod. “The very same. Though I confess the house sees more of Rowena than of me, these days.”

My father gave a small huff—either amusement or disapproval. Maybe both.

“And this is DmitriVolkov.”

Dmitri’s nod was barely perceptible. “Sir.”

“Volkov,” my father said, eyes narrowing. “That’s an old name.”

“Older than most,” Dmitri replied.

A pause stretched between them, thick with observation.

And then, to me:

“All of them vampires like Mr. Vexley, or?—?”

Vael choked. “I beg your pardon?—”

“You didn’t think I knew?” my father said, not even glancing at him. “Please, Vael. I’ve been a wardmaker longer than you’ve been alive. You think I can’t feel a glamour when it’s pressed up against my wards?”

Vael made a frustrated sound that might’ve been an ancient curse.