Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

I nteresting place, this Bullwhacker Bar. Drink orders filled for the moment, Patrin leaned an arm on the glossy, wooden bar top to study the place. The Scythe had taught him to be a bartender since it was an easy way to get close to a target. However, since their targets had been influential people, he'd spent most of his time in cities.

"Fell," he shouted. "Empties in the pool room."

Near the center of the room, his brother lifted a hand in reply.

This small-town bar was quite different from what Patrin was used to. It had a certain rustic charm, being battered and comfortable, much like the owner, Nikolaou Chaconas. Patrin glanced over.

Working the other end of the bar, the owner was slightly under average height and built badger-tough rather than graceful. Graying hair, leathery skin, and a flamboyant gray-white mustache indicated the human had reached his senior years.

Nik had hired Patrin to work behind the bar, and on the busier nights, like this Friday night, Fell would get some hours—picking up empties, washing up, and serving as what Nik called a bouncer. Relieved he wouldn't have to engage in conversation with customers, Fell readily agreed. He just had to occasionally call out Patrin's name.

As Patrin would Fell's. It was good they had unusual names, ones that'd gained a reputation in the PNW Scythe division. Should make any operative take notice if he heard them.

"Hey, Top Dog."

Startled at the unexpected greeting, Patrin spotted two of his shifter-soldiers. At eighteen, the two were still slender, not having put on a male's heavier growth. In worn jeans, flannel shirts, and cowboy hats, they were obviously from one of the outlying ranches. "Kennard, Fletcher." Ah, right, Wells mentioned the brothers were here in Ailill Ridge. Hmm. They sure weren't of legal drinking age. "Are you allowed in here?"

Fletcher flashed a smile. "No one asks. No one cares."

Kennard leaned on the bar. "All the ranch hands come in on Friday or Saturday nights." And, of course, even if they were cats and not wolves, these young males wanted to be part of the group.

Patrin couldn't blame them. "All right. No more than two beers or I'll card you."

Kennard fished out his wallet. "Aye, Top Dog. Two light drafts, please."

Top Dog . Patrin snorted at hearing the title again from someone besides Fell. As the years went on and he ended up leading the shifter-soldiers, they'd started calling him that. Then again, he'd refused to answer to alpha since the group included panthers and bears as well as wolves.

"What're you doing here anyway?" Fletcher asked. "Is Fell here?"

"Can't say—and yes." Patrin smiled and started filling a couple of mugs.

"Oh." Fletcher's brown eyes darkened with his realization that Patrin and Fell were on assignment. And his face tightened with obvious guilt. Because they weren't with the older shifter-soldiers tracking the Scythe.

"Wipe that expression off your face, cat. We got more than enough of us for the few bad guys that're left." Patrin set the two mugs on the bar. "So how's the job? Ranch work, right?"

A corner of Kennard's mouth tipped up. "It's great."

Fletcher jumped in as usual. "Daniel and Tanner are brothers of the Cosantir's lifemate. They raise horses and cattle—and hay. Kennard and me, we only work livestock. All the ranch hands are"—he glanced right and left and obviously revised his words—"um, pretty much alike, so we get on good."

In other words, the crew was Daonain. "Sounds like you're enjoying yourselves."

"We missed a lot, growing up where we did. They're catching us up," Fletcher said.

Patrin could only nod—and be grateful the young males had help.

"Our sister, Averi, moved to Cold Creek, and we wanted to be near her but not underpaw," Kennard said.

"And Grandsire lives up in the North Cascades Elder Village. So we run up to see him now and then," Fletcher added.

"Hey, F ‘n' K, over here." The yell came from a table of males and a few females, all with western hats.

"Go, lads." Patrin smiled at them. "If Fell and I get the chance, we'll try to catch up with you before we leave."

Fletcher grinned.

Despite Kennard's half smile, he also had a glint of tears in his eyes. "Top Dog."

Patrin watched them join their table of ranch hands, and his chest ached. They'd all lost so much to the Scythe— family, friends, and years where they should have been carefree younglings growing to adulthood.

At least the shifter-soldiers were free now. It was reassuring to see Kennard and Fletcher fit in with the other hands.

Feeling lighter, Patrin moved up and down the bar, filling orders, making conversation with humans and shifters. Really, in a bar, there wasn't much difference in the way they acted.

The noise in the bar increased as a group of men in jeans, work shirts, and boots entered. The one leading the group was waving his hands in the air, obviously finishing a story. Laughing loudly, the men broke apart, some moving toward a table, the rest toward the bar.

"That's the Moreno construction crew." Joining Patrin, Nik pulled two pitchers from under the bar and greeted the group. "Welcome back, boys. What can I get you?"

"It's been a hard day. Let's start with a couple of pitchers, one light, one dark." The storyteller was a muscular male with wavy, medium-brown hair swept straight back. He looked familiar.

He eyed Patrin in turn and nodded cordially.

Catching the male's scent, Patrin realized he'd been at the pack run—and so had many of the rest of the crew.

Across the room, Fell was watching, probably for the same reason. He'd always been more observant than Patrin.

"Finally found some help, Nik?" the male said. "You've been without for a while."

The owner handed over the first pitcher. "Yep. The last of my summer hires headed back to school in September. I figured on handling the place myself over winter, but hell, I'm getting up there in years. I need my sleep."

"Then it's good you have someone to help." The male smiled at Patrin and stuck his hand out. "Welcome to Ailill Ridge. I'm Ramón Moreno."

Moreno. The construction crew must be his. Wait, hadn't Gretchen said that Moya's last name was Moreno? Was this a relative?

Patrin shook his hand, feeling hard calluses. "Thanks." He added, "I'm Patrin," in case the male hadn't heard during the alpha's introduction last night.

Besides, part of the mission was to get the Scythe to move, and getting his name out there was part of that. No need to add a last name. The Scythe knew it, but he'd just as soon no one associated their sister, Darcy, with them. The North Cascades Territory where she lived wasn't far away.

He jerked his chin toward the front of the bar. "My brother, Fell."

"I remember from…" Ramón halted, undoubtedly recalling he was in a crowded bar with humans around. "Anyway, good to meet you."

"Likewise."

Ramón picked up the pitchers and headed for his crew's table near the right wall. Another male collected a batch of beer mugs and followed.

Patrin watched the group for a minute. Typical pack wolves—slapping each other's arms and backs, shoulder-to-shoulder, rowdy, friendly.

Almost made him homesick for the barracks.

As he filled orders, he tried to pick out the Daonain amongst the humans…and tried to see if any human might be the Scythe spy.

According to Nik, very few tourists remained in town with the weather growing cold. Everyone wore casual clothing—usually jeans and sweaters or sweatshirts.

Two tables of females bracketed the construction crew. At one table were females he'd seen during the pack run. The females at the other table, he figured, were human.

Seated by the front windows near the door were three males. They seemed at ease but without the closeness of the pack wolves, and more watchful as well. Maybe mountain lions.

A group in the narrow pool room caught his attention. Some with a distinctive prowling gait of cougars. Others who talked with big gestures—probably bears.

"There are good people in this town," Nik said, reaching past to grab the jar of cherries. "Although the odd fistfight—even some brawls—do happen. Occasionally."

"Or maybe more often. Probably because alcohol can cause testosterone poisoning." Laughing, Moya slid onto a stool at the bar.

She had a clear, melodic voice, one that made Patrin want to ask her questions, just to hear her speak.

"My dear, you are too cynical." Nik patted her hand. "What would you like to drink?"

"Heather wants a no tequila sunrise, and I'd like an Old Fashioned." Her rosy lips were perfectly curved, the top lip tilting up slightly.

And why the fuck was he focused on her lips?

Keep your paws on the trail, wolf.

"Coming right up." Nik glanced at Patrin. "Can you make the Old Fashioned? She prefers bourbon."

"Sure." Patrin noticed Moya's small jump when she recognized him. A tiny wrinkle appeared between her delicately arched brows.

He didn't get a smile. Was there a reason she didn't like him?

By the time he'd finished mixing the drink, Nik had handed over the virgin cocktail and taken her money.

Patrin moved closer. "Here you are."

Sliding off the stool and stepping back, she extended her arm for the drink. "Thank you."

"My pleasure."

Her fingers trembled as she took the glass.

Fuck, was she scared of him? After trying to punch him? Twice?

Frowning, he watched her back up several steps, gaze on him, before turning and heading to a table in the middle of the room.

Nik's leathery face held a disapproving expression. "Seems nervous around you—and not in a good way. You hittin' on her?"

"No, actually." Patrin ran his fingers through his hair, scowling. "Fell and I just got into town and are still trying to get settled. She's adorable, but I'm not ready to add a fe—woman to the mess my life is in."

Nik's laugh was a short bark of sound. "At last, common sense in the younger generation." Chuckling, he moved down the bar toward a man holding up an empty glass.

The old human was a character. Patrin turned away, glancing again at Moya, who was seated across from the Cosantir's mate.

Moving past Moya, Fell stopped and said something. Wait—Fell talked to her?

And she laughed, open and easy, not frightened at all. What the fuck? It was Fell who intimidated both males and females, and Patrin who made friends.

By the God, she was sure pretty when she laughed.

Moya watched Fell move away and shook her head. "Whew, he prowls like a cat shifter, only with a little something added."

And that little something added a tingle right up her spine.

Sitting on the other side of the table, Heather considered the big male. "Mmmhmm. I'd call it a helping of I'll-kill-you-if-you-annoy-me ."

Moya burst out laughing. "Your description isn't funny, only…it really is."

"He reminds me of Zeb. Do you remember him? The cahir who moved to the North Cascades with his partner, Shay? I think you were here a couple of years before they left."

"Of course I remember them. Who could forget a cahir?" The giant-sized protectors of the clan tended to be memorable, although she had always avoided Shay and Zeb.

They had very dominant personalities. It was no surprise Shay was now alpha of the Cold Creek pack. "I think you're right—Zeb and Fell have a killer vibe…and share their proclivity for being chatty."

Heather choked on her drink. "You mean they're both totally uncommunicative."

"Like they believe three words constitutes an entire conversation." At least Fell wanted to change, unlike Zeb. Fell's determination to improve was remarkable—and inspiring.

"I see Fell's brother got hired on here." Heather glanced toward the bar at the back of the room.

Moya turned…and met Patrin's penetrating dark eyes. As he held her gaze, the rest of the room turned to a blur. Gravity lightened until it felt as if her chair was floating.

"Moya?" Heather's voice held enough amusement to break the spell.

Reality returned with an almost palpable thud. "Um." What'd Heather say before? "Right. Fell mentioned they had experience bartending. Patrin is more sociable, I guess, so he took the bartender position, and Fell got bouncer."

"Patrin doesn't appear to have a problem talking." Heather was looking at the bar.

Moya followed her gaze and saw Patrin easily chatting with a couple of her brothers' crew. His white shirt set off his dark beard and olive complexion—and fitted far too well over the finely sculpted musculature. He was seriously good looking.

What was wrong with her? Rather than talking to the sexy wolf, she'd backed away like a kitten spotting a fox.

"There's an annoyed expression." Heather's brows drew together. "Did the male bother you?"

"Oh, no. Uh, yes. It wasn't his fault." When Heather looked blank, Moya explained. "It's the dominance stuff. He simply radiates it."

"Ah. It's good there was a bar between you so you couldn't whack him." Heather grinned at Moya's glare. "Speaking of which, why'd you want to meet here rather than at the Shamrock? Didn't you swear off this place after the last drunk you flattened?"

"I did. But the drunks are why I'm here." Moya took a big gulp of her Old Fashioned and blinked. Even if Patrin was scary, he made a great drink. "I've worked on all the calming exercises. Now I need practice not answering pushiness with violence."

Over the past four days, Fell had done as she asked, intimidating the spit out of her. Occasionally terrifying her. She'd punched him a few times, especially at first. Only, the more she made him talk to her—as her part of the deal—the less frightened she was. No, be honest , her attraction to him was getting stronger than her fear. He was just so…so dangerously masculine.

However, since he couldn't scare her any longer, she'd decided to search out unexpected interactions with strangers.

"Huh." Heather propped her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her laced-together fingers. "I know André ordered you to work on this, but you're putting in more effort than I thought you would."

"Now, see, I would never ignore an order from our magnificent, wonderful, amazing Cosantir," Moya grinned when Heather snickered. "Aside from incurring minor repercussions like being banished if I didn't obey, I really do want to get over my problem with dominant males. You know, nice dominant males."

Heather raised her eyebrows. "I feel as if I'm missing something."

"I was thinking over our conversation from the Shamrock about me liking dominant males. And I realized I'm not attracted at all to non-dominant males." Meek males didn't interest her at all. It was only because of a full moon heat that she managed to mate with the shifters who were only mildly dominant or balanced between the two personality types. "The males I really desire are also the ones who make me back away." Like Patrin, Gods help her. "Or I punch them."

"Mother's breasts." Heather rolled her eyes. "Talk about a dilemma. I'm not surprised that you prefer powerful guys."

"Huh?"

Heather held up a finger. "One, you like challenges—like starting a bookstore from scratch." Another finger went up. "Two, you're fairly dominant yourself."

Moya shrugged. No surprise there. In the business, Talitha let her make the decisions. In their mini pack with Heather and Talitha, Moya led the runs. Heather edged toward dominant herself but was enough in the middle to where she'd take command only if the person in charge was weak or incompetent.

Moya liked being out in front. Liked leading.

Heather grinned. "Your ability to direct others is probably why the alpha and betas want to get you for a mate, and they might not even realize why. It's instinct for the alpha to look for a mate who can strengthen the pack. The best alpha females are on the dominant side and smart and energetic. Nurturing—and someone who likes dealing with people. That's you…and of course, you're also terminally cute."

Cute. Heather knew how Moya felt about that putrid descriptor. "Bite me, bitch."

Heather laughed. "It's so fun seeing you with males who don't know you. None of them expect a pocket-sized wolf to be so dominant."

Pocket-sized? "Girl, I have a fist, and I know how to use it."

Still grinning, Heather glanced around. "All right then. How do you want to go about your don't-react-to-the-dominants hunt tonight?"

Pleasure warmed Moya's heart. She wouldn't be all alone as she pushed her limits.

Fell wandered through the bar, his nose on alert to pick up any hint of impending fights. Anger, whether human or shifter, held a discernible stink.

After snagging a batch of empties, he deposited them at the end of the bar for the youngling in the back to deal with, then returned to prowling the room. Working as what Nik called a bouncer was a comfortable job. Fuck knew, he was used to brawls.

Imprisoned in the Scythe stockade with younger, emotionally volatile male shifters, he and Patrin had spent their time teaching, breaking up fights, talking, breaking up fights, sleeping…and breaking up fights.

So far, this bouncer job at the Bullwhacker felt downright natural.

At the end of the bar where his back would be to the wall, he settled on a stool and did his duty, shouting out his brother's name. "Patrin, a drink!"

Smiling, perfectly content with talking to every fucking person, Patrin brought Fell a lemonade and returned to dispensing drinks to the customers massed around the bar.

Fell would far rather fight them than talk.

His tongue had loosened up some though, what with four days of being harassed by a determined little wolf. Moya had noticed that scaring her bothered the fuck out of him. Taking advantage, she forced him to talk while he tried to calm his instincts.

She now held his hand while doing so. He wasn't sure if it was to reassure him she wasn't hurt or to prevent him from escaping her questions.

Himself? He considered holding hands as his reward. She had a tiny hand, soft and smooth, and even when trembling, her grip was firm.

By the God, she was fun to be with. Turned out they'd read a lot of the same books. And she also liked debating the worth of various stuffy Daonain traditions. Yeah, he enjoyed his time with her, and he was getting better at talking.

At least with her.

Moya saw Fell sitting at the end of the bar, sipping a drink—and had to suppress the urge to join him. It'd be even better to scare him the way he did her, but he was impossible to sneak up on. And she'd tried.

"You want the shelves to match what you have now?"

Emerson Wainwright's question yanked her attention back to the table. He and his brother, Baldwin, had come over to talk about her request for improving the bookstore's children's section. "The same style, yes. The shelves must be short. And colorful—very colorful."

Emerson nodded, taking notes on a paper napkin.

A twinge of guilt ran through her. "You know, I can find a handyman. You two are far too talented to waste your time on making cute children's shelves for the bookstore."

"It won't be a waste of time." Emerson grinned at her. Fair-skinned, tall and lanky, the furniture-makers were around twenty years older than she was—although shifter ages were difficult to guess. With short, dark-brown hair and beard, Baldwin possessed a long face and nose that matched his morose nature. Slightly shorter, Emerson had blue eyes, brown hair, and a reddish beard. His fun-loving, prankster personality had marked his face with a wealth of laugh lines.

Baldwin nodded. "Our nephews are learning to read."

"Your bookstore already appeals to the adults. We can make the cubs' section a lot better." Emerson nudged his brother. "At cost."

Baldwin echoed him. "At cost."

"Me and my budget are grateful." Moya beamed at the cat-shifters. "When can you?—"

"Well, well, well, look at who left her den. Haven't seen you in here in a while, Moya."

The nasal tenor made Moya stiffen as irritation vied with dread. She tried to keep her face still as she looked up at the crow-cursed new alpha. "Brett."

His leer made her want to knock his fangs out.

Heather thumped her glass onto the table, diverting his attention. "Brett."

His leer disappeared. He was smart enough to be cautious with the Cosantir's lifemate.

Noticing the Wainwright brothers, he scowled and asked Moya, "Why are you socializing with flea-bitten felines?"

The brothers stiffened.

Fairy farts, did the alphahole want to incite another cat-dog brawl? Before André had arrived, the fighting had grown increasingly vicious—like last summer when a bunch of young wolves attacked some cougars. Afterward, Margery, the banfasa, had spent hours tending the wounded.

Oh Gods, this is not good. Brett hates cats even more than Roger did. He'd probably lost some childhood battle with a feline kit, stewed over it ever since, and now Mr. Malicious hated all cats.

How incredibly stupid. A person didn't choose what traits they were born with. Why hate them for that? Their actions, on the other hand… She sure understood despising someone for their behavior. Because she totally loathed this gnome-brained bigot.

"I asked you a question, female." Brett nudged her shoulder.

Moya rolled her eyes. "Oh, huh."

He moved in closer, puffing his chest out. "You shouldn't be talking to these mangy-tailed moggies." Calling a werecat a moggy was as rude as calling a wolf a mutt or mongrel, implying they were a human pet—and an inferior one to boot.

She had to bite back what would've been a very rude response. He was the alpha in this territory. Openly insulting him might get her kicked out of the territory. Instead, she turned away.

"Don't you ignore me." One hand on the back of her chair, the other on the tabletop, he leaned over her in an aggressively territorial move.

Her hands closed into fists. Don't hit him; don't hit him.

Across from her, Baldwin rose to his feet, feline graceful. "Go away, mongrel."

Even if Brett was shorter, his bulky muscles made him wider and heavier. He growled.

"Belligerent roosters," Heather muttered under her breath before raising her voice. "If you want to fight, go elsewhere. A public bar is not the place."

So true. In September, when André arrived, he'd been infuriated at the werecats and wolves fighting in the bar. The shifters had been far more discreet ever since.

Would Brett be cautious? He was more cunning than Roger, but far less restrained. Far more of a bully.

"You're right, Heather." Baldwin sneered at Brett. "Let's take it outside, puny alpha. Just you and me. It'll get you away from this sweet wolf who really doesn't like you." He motioned to her to call attention to how she'd moved as far away from Brett's looming body as she could.

Argh, fang it . Although defending her, Baldwin was doing it in such a way to escalate the situation.

Straightening, Brett growled. "I'll fight. We all will."

Even as he spoke, the weak pack bonds inside Moya prickled with anger, rubbing her nerves raw.

"You fucking moggy, with your chicken-shit name-calling." Brett shouted loud enough to be heard over all the noise in the room. "You cowardly cats can't win against us ." He called on the pack bonds with an alpha's enhanced strength. Attack.

Dismay ripped through Moya. She could feel his manipulation of the ties. Would anyone else?

All around the bar, the wolves shoved back from the tables and stood, faces flushed with anger.

Moya wanted to cry. Roger had pushed the pack into fighting before but never so strongly.

Oh, Gods, my brothers. Ramón and Zorion stalked across the room with the wolves from their construction crew behind them.

The Cosantir would banish them all—especially if Heather got hurt in the fracas.

Jumping to her feet, Moya yelled, "Ramón, Zorion, stop."

Startled, they halted, and after a moment, motioned for their crew to stop. Non-crew wolves kept moving forward.

Around the room, the werecats had noticed and were standing. The whole place was going to erupt into a war.

She could spot the humans by their uncomprehending expressions. So far, all they saw was a potential brawl. Mother's breasts, this could get really bad.

A young ranch hand—thankfully, a wolf still in human form—charged toward Emerson.

Hissing, the cat carpenter jumped to his feet, chair toppling.

"No!" Moya jumped between the two and punched the young wolf in his gut, using the strength from her core. She followed with a snappy upper cut to his jaw.

He landed on the floor and sat there, blinking.

"You dare? " Brett growled from behind her, then shouted, "Pack!"

Two more wolves headed toward the cats.

Before she could move, Fell grabbed Brett by the collar. "Maggot-brain." He dragged the struggling alpha to the door and flung him out so hard the wolf landed on his back like an upended beetle.

Fell stepped aside just in time for Patrin to toss Baldwin out…right on top of Brett. Then the formidable shifter-soldiers crossed their muscular arms over their chests and stood, deliberately blocking anyone inside from following out the door.

Patrin turned far enough to yell out the door, "If you two want to fight, do it out there, one on one. There'll be no brawling in the Bullwhacker."

"Damn straight," Nik called from behind the bar.

Still seated, Heather snickered and took a sip of her drink.

Pulling in a breath, Moya looked around and blinked. It appeared the war was over.

Laughing, the cats were resuming their seats.

The wolves still stood in place, probably feeling the same thing she was—a chill wash of reality erasing the anger that had simmered through the pack bonds. Tossing Brett outside had dislodged his manipulation and let the wolves come to their senses.

"What in the world was all that about?" a human woman sitting nearby asked her tablemates.

Demon dung, how stupid could everyone be—they'd started this scat in front of humans . Time to cover up the scat with a pile of camouflaging dirt. Moya put her hands on her hips and raised her voice. "Honestly, Ramón, if your basketball teams can't behave, you shouldn't go out drinking together."

"Our…" Ramón caught on quickly that there were humans witnessing them. He winced and replied in an equally loud voice, "Yeah, sorry. It was a hard-fought game, and my team lost. Guess we let it get to us more than we should." He motioned to the construction crew to go back to their table.

"I swear, the referee must've been bribed." Zorion patted Moya's shoulder and caught up to his crew.

Thankfully, he hadn't noticed her trembling. The pressure exerted through the pack bonds had been frighteningly similar to the mental compulsion she'd suffered in the past. From Alpha Leonard, the Gods-benighted cur.

At the bar, Nik lifted his hand to someone standing in the restroom hallway.

Moya took a step back at the sight of Bron, the Chief of Police. The tough-looking older female with short dark hair was what a human might call a real hard-ass. And a cahir. If breaking up a brawl, she wouldn't have pulled her punches—and Moya's brothers would've landed in a forest of pain.

Thank the Mother that Patrin and Fell had acted before the Chief got involved.

Noticing everyone's attention was focused on what was happening outside beneath the streetlights, Moya turned to look.

Baldwin had regained his feet. He waited for Brett to stand, then motioned with his hand— come at me .

Brett didn't move. After a moment, he sneered and walked away.

"What in the world?" Heather murmured. "After all that, he's just leaving?"

Moya frowned. Was the alpha unwilling to fight unless he had the pack behind him?

Dread crawled up her spine. He hadn't challenged for alpha until after Roger was hurt. Now he walked away from a fair fight. She glanced around, wondering if anyone else realized what she just had—their new alpha was a coward.

Silence fell over the bar as Bron stalked across the room, eyes narrowed. She was obviously in a lousy mood—not that she was ever what one would call jovial.

As the wolves hastily turned back to their conversations, Moya caught Heather's gaze, and they both snickered.

"A brawl in here isn't a laughing matter," Bron snapped.

Heather simply smiled, not engaging the irritable older female who was her lifemates' aunt. Moya smothered a smile. When first arriving here, the cahir had displayed major cattitude. Apparently, Bron had never liked any of her nephews' entanglements. Eventually, the cahir had been won over, probably because very little upset Heather, and even the Chief of Police had to be impressed.

"The fight got stopped before it started," Heather added diplomatically. "Can I buy you a drink?"

Bron's annoyed sigh made Moya burst out laughing and got her an annoyed frown.

The chief turned her attention to Fell and Patrin. She cocked her head. "You're the shifter-soldiers I met at the housewarming party."

When Fell nodded rather than speaking, Moya sighed. Yes, they had more work to do.

Patrin gave her a charming smile. "Chief. Good to see you again."

"And you." Bron glanced around the now-quiet bar. "Not bad work."

Her lips almost curved upward before she stalked out the door.

Heather lifted her eyebrows at Patrin. "You know, André was surprised you didn't want a job with her."

"We're staying flexible. In case this territory doesn't suit us," Patrin said easily.

"Oh." Heather shook her head. "I think everyone would be disappointed if you left."

"Really? That's nice to hear." The surprise in Patrin's voice startled Moya.

But it was the flash of longing in Fell's eyes that squeezed her heart.