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TWENTY-NINE

E vening found Xai’s penthouse transformed from bachelor sanctuary to supernatural war room. Rust Leonid spread town maps across the dining table. Artair Maxen detailed security provisions. Bartek Arbor outlined pride territories and potential alliances.

“Madrigal’s enforcers aren’t talking,” Artair reported, frustration evident in his bearish growl. “They’re too afraid of him—or too loyal.”

“Fear and loyalty often look identical under pressure,” Rust observed.

Noven entered from the kitchen, balancing pizza boxes. “Food’s here. Can’t plan vengeance on empty stomachs.”

“Any word from Bryn?” Xai asked, accepting a plate without looking at it.

“She’s made contact with Luciana,” Noven replied. “They’re meeting at the Honeycrisp Bakery in an hour. Neutral territory.”

“And how’s our lioness?” Bartek inquired, his tiger-shifter eyes sharp.

“Recovering,” Xai answered curtly. “Her resilience is... remarkable.”

“As is your restraint,” Noven muttered, earning glares from everyone except Bartek, who badly disguised a laugh as a cough.

“Something amusing?” Xai challenged.

“Not at all,” Bartek replied, though his eyes sparkled with mischief. “Just noticing how the temperature rises five degrees anytime Zina’s mentioned.”

“If we could focus on the threat at hand rather than my thermal regulation—” Xai began, only to be interrupted by his phone.

A message from Artemis displayed a photo of Mrs. Plumworth, the town’s notorious magpie-shifter gossip, standing outside Zina’s spa with a conspiratorial gleam in her eye. Below it, Artemis had written: “Town’s abuzz about the dragon elder carrying our spa owner into her home. Any comment before rumors reach critical mass?”

The temperature hit ninety degrees. Ice cubes melted instantly in drinks across the table.

“Might want to ease up before you melt the furniture,” Artair advised mildly. “Dragon tempers and Italian leather don’t mix well.”

Xai forced his emotions under control, though scales rippled visibly beneath his knuckles. “Gossip is the least of our concerns.”

“On the contrary,” Rust countered. “Social perception carries weight in supernatural politics. If the town sees you as Zina’s protector—or more—it changes how Madrigal must approach this conflict.”

“It makes her a clearer target,” Xai growled.

“She’s already a target,” Bartek pointed out. “But with you publicly in her corner, Madrigal must consider the consequences of dragon retribution.”

The doorbell interrupted further debate. Noven’s eyebrows shot up as he checked the security feed on his phone.

“It’s Luciana Madrigal,” he announced. “With Bryn.”

Tension coiled through Xai’s body. “Earlier than expected.”

Noven opened the door, revealing a nervous-looking Luciana and a visibly triumphant Bryn.

“She knows about the artifact,” Bryn declared without preamble. “And she’s willing to help us.”

Luciana stepped forward, her resemblance to her brother unmistakable despite her softer features. “I can’t fight Severin directly,” she stated, her voice steady despite her obvious anxiety. “But I can’t let him destroy Enchanted Falls for a century-old family obsession either.”

Xai’s eyes narrowed, draconic suspicion warring with practical need for information. “What exactly is your brother seeking?”

“The Founding Pyre,” she answered. “A magical artifact created by the three founding families—Gravemont, Parker, and Emberwylde. Legend says it can amplify a user’s inherent magic a hundredfold if properly activated.”

“And if improperly activated?” Rust asked.

Luciana’s expression grew grim. “It could drain all magic from Enchanted Falls, killing every supernatural being within twenty miles.”

Silence fell over the room.

“That’s why the three families created blood-warded protections,” she continued. “To ensure no single bloodline could access it alone.”

“But the Parkers are down to just Zina,” Noven pointed out. “No Gravemonts live here anymore. And if Severin has somehow acquired dragon blood...”

“He believes he’s found a loophole,” Luciana confirmed. “An ancient ritual that can substitute magical force for bloodline access. But it requires enormous power—power he plans to siphon from the ley line beneath the spa if he can’t have blood.”

“When?” Xai demanded, heat radiating from him in palpable waves.

“Several nights from now. During the blood moon.”

Xai’s fist slammed onto the table, leaving a smoldering handprint on the expensive wood. “He will not succeed.”

“Not just for Zina’s sake,” Bartek added, “but for everyone’s.”

“We need a plan,” Artair stated, ever practical. “One that protects both Zina and the artifact.”

The group bent over maps and documents, strategies forming and reforming as night deepened. Throughout the planning, Xai remained at the center—a force of calculated rage and protective determination.