Page 11 of Mystic Justice (The Other Detective #2)

Despite his casual jeans, my royal escort looked utterly relaxed in the fancy setting, and the waiters tripped over themselves in their eagerness to serve an obviously wealthy alpha male.

The restaurant clung to the upper edge of the West Tower like a well-dressed eagle’s nest, all gleaming glass, soft lighting and hushed luxury.

Floor-to-ceiling windows offered stunning views.

The River Mersey glittered with sunlight and I could even see rolling Welsh hills in the distance.

Yeah, I’d give him that – it was one heck of a view.

A slate stand towered between us, its three tiers dressed to impress.

The base offered neat finger sandwiches: slices of cucumber with mint crème fraiche; egg mayonnaise with micro-cress – my favourite – and rare roast beef folded over horseradish butter in soft brioche that made my mouth salivate at the thought of tasting it.

The middle tier was a riot of colour with cakes and pastries in an array of shapes and sizes.

It was a fairy tale in sugar: miniature lemon possets in shot glasses; bright pink rosewater macarons; mini carrot-cake slices, and a tartlet filled with violet cream and topped with a single sugared pansy.

The top tier was all warm scones with a side of freshly churned butter, thick clotted cream and smooth strawberry preserve. My stomach growled audibly and I flushed a little.

I was on the job and Krieg knew it, so there was no prosecco, no cocktails, just tea, but it was proper loose-leaf tea poured into bone china cups through a silver strainer with enough ceremony to make me feel faintly awkward.

I wasn’t used to silver service. To be honest, it all felt a bit much, but with the food looking so divine I was willing to put up with a side order of imposter syndrome.

Besides, the company was certainly compelling.

The only thing that would have made the whole thing better would have been a can of Dr Pepper.

As if she’d read my mind, a moment later a buxom waitress with a flirty smile held out a silver tray to Krieg. On it sat a chilled can of Dr P, condensation clinging to its sides. Involuntarily I licked my lips.

Krieg’s eyes darkened. Without sparing the waitress a single glance, he removed the can from the tray and, still holding my gaze, opened it.

The loud crack resounded across the fancy restaurant like a gunshot, a challenge.

It reminded me of the old Coke advert where a sexy guy stripped his shirt off and drank a can of Coke while an office full of women gaped at him.

If Krieg stripped off his shirt and drank my Dr P, I would pounce on him. Sadly for all concerned, he just set the can in front of me.

This was surely not the sort of place that usually stocked something so crass as Dr Pepper – and if they did, they certainly wouldn’t serve it in a can – but there was something about sipping from the metal that I’d always loved. And Krieg was nothing if not observant.

He watched intently as I took my first sip of bubbly rich goodness then set down the can with a satisfied smile. ‘Honestly, Krieg, you don’t know what you’re missing.’

‘One day,’ he murmured, voice low, ‘I’ll taste it from your lips.’

I swallowed. Hard.

‘One day soon,’ he promised, his eyes lingering on my lips as he licked his own.

Oh boy. I was in so much trouble.

I was a woman who faced things head on and this – whatever this was – could be no exception. I took another sip from my can, selected an egg-mayo sandwich and marshalled my courage. ‘Talk to me about the fact that you think I’m your mate.’

He stared at me for a beat then he threw back his head and laughed. ‘You’re a breath of fresh air, Inspector,’ he said when he’d recovered himself. ‘I’m used to people pussy-footing around me.’

‘I won’t do that,’ I said firmly. ‘Life is too short.’ My dad’s death had taught me that at too young an age.

Krieg discreetly fed Loki some of the sandwiches as he framed his response.

My cheeky bird companion was resting in a large plant pot and staying still; at a glance he could have passed for a statue.

However, his stillness went out of the window when Krieg passed him some beef and he gave a happy warble as he chowed it down.

With Loki taken care of, Krieg selected his own beef sandwich with his left hand and took my left hand in his right.

He interlaced our fingers and his thumb stroked my skin almost absently.

He took a bite of his sandwich whilst my insides grew hotter and hotter at every casual swipe of his skin.

‘You’re distracting me,’ I complained a shade breathlessly.

He smiled. ‘Good.’

I narrowed my eyes. ‘You’re also avoiding my question.’

He laugh again. ‘Not enough, it seems. I do so admire your tenacity.’

I started again. ‘A witch brewed you a potion to reveal your intended mate.’

Krieg’s look of admiration grew. ‘So clever, Inspector.’

I snorted. ‘Hardly. You mentioned a witch and a potion. Ogres don’t believe in taking healing potions, so there are only a few potions that you would actually use.

You’re missing a mate, and by your own admission you’re facing increasing political and internal pressure from your den to fill it.

’ I took another sip from my can. ‘My name came up.’

‘Your face,’ he corrected. ‘In a pool of water. A vision of loveliness.’

‘Uh-huh. And you’ve been in love with me ever since,’ I said caustically. ‘Love at first sight.’

‘Hardly,’ he scoffed lightly but his eyes were still drinking in every inch of my face. ‘I don’t know you yet, but I will. Perhaps love will come. But in the meantime, I won’t deny there is a magnetism between us that I am keen to explore.’

‘Potions can be wrong. Witches make mistakes.’

He studied me. ‘Amber DeLea brewed it for me in exchange for me cancelling a contract on her.’

My mouth dropped open. ‘You took a hit out on the Crone?’

He shrugged. ‘She wasn’t the Crone then. The point is that DeLea doesn’t make mistakes.’

I took another bite of sandwich but barely tasted it as my brain whirred.

Amber was a potion mistress of the highest calibre; she’d even brewed a potion that allowed the human part of the Other realm to stay in the magical realm for longer without needing a recharge.

She wasn’t just a good brewer; she was a freaking genius.

The likelihood that she would mess up an important potion was slim at the best of times, but virtually non-existent when you considered that her life had been on the line.

‘Mates,’ Loki trilled quietly.

‘What does it mean?’ I said abruptly. ‘Being mates? What does that mean to the ogres?’

Krieg studied me with his mercurial eyes for a long moment before he spoke. ‘A monogamous binding. For life.’

‘Children?’

‘If you’d like them.’ He shrugged a shoulder casually as if he didn’t care either way.

‘And if I don’t?’ I asked harshly.

‘Then we won’t have them,’ he replied easily.

‘They would only be a quarter-ogre,’ I pointed out.

‘True, but the ogre genes are dominant so we tend to breed true. I’m only half-ogre but the only physical hint of that is the fact that my limbs are not as mismatched as they should be.

I’m as strong and heal as quickly as any full-ogre.

I have full tusks. If we had children, they’d certainly have the same attributes, and they wouldn’t need to go to the Common realm to retain them. ’

Brain whirring, I decided that was enough honesty and blunt truth for one day. I steered the conversation back to less contentious matters. ‘Have you ever been to the Common realm?’

He nodded. ‘A few times.’

The answer surprised me because the creature side had no need of the Common realm. Why would he willingly shuck his strong ogre form for that of a far weaker human? ‘What do you look like in the Common?’ I asked curiously.

‘Shorter. Skinnier. No tusks.’ He brushed his free hand against the protrusions as if he were suddenly self-conscious about them.

‘I like your tusks,’ I blurted out because I didn’t for one moment want him to think that I was uncomfortable with any aspects of his creature-ness.

His thumb started sweeping my hand again; only when the caresses resumed did I notice that they had stopped. His eyes warmed. ‘Do you now?’

I did. They gave him a faintly devilish air that appealed to the teenage side of me that still fancied a bad boy.

I brushed my hands against my suit trousers to clean them then slowly reached one of them towards his tusks.

I gave him plenty of time to pull back but he didn’t move.

I had to sit on one of my legs to raise me high enough to reach them.

As I stroked my fingers down the larger of the two, his eyes slid shut and he made a low sound that from any other man I would have called a moan.

I wondered what would happen if I curled my hand around it.

Before I could investigate further, he gently pulled my hand away. ‘Touching my tusks is something we should do in private.’ His voice was gravelly.

My heart was beating faster than usual. ‘It’s arousing?’

‘Oh yes,’ he admitted gruffly and shifted in his seat.

His chest was rising and falling rapidly as he struggled to get himself back under control.

‘I’ve never been touched like that before,’ he admitted.

‘It is only for our mates. I’d heard tales…

’ He gave a wry smile. ‘I thought them exaggerated but it appears they were, if anything, downplaying the effects of mate tusk touches.’

‘Whit-wooo,’ Loki whistled teasingly, clearly amused rather than censorious.

I searched for a way to move the conversation on in a less volatile way. ‘How come they’re called tusks and not horns?’

‘Horns are made from bone and they are part of your skull. Tusks are ivory, made from dentine.’

‘Do you have to brush them?’

He smiled. ‘No, though we clean them in the shower.’

‘When you touch them… ?’ I couldn’t help but ask.

Krieg’s lips curved up. ‘It’s not the same at all. Their … sensitivity is keyed to my mate.’

Huh. ‘You let me touch you so you’d be sure Amber hadn’t made a mistake,’ I accused.

‘Perhaps. But evidently she did not.’

I took a big gulp of my Dr Pepper. There was no denying the effect a simple caress had on him: I really was the intended mate to the High King of the Ogres.

Bloody hell.