Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15

A s Charlie dressed for the meeting at Motham Palace, excitement fizzed through her veins like tiny champagne bubbles.

Of course, that was partly because of their visit to the archives today. It would be an incredible experience, getting to see old texts that had not been accessible to anyone other than the Motham family themselves for two centuries. The historian in her was looking forward to seeing what they would uncover. And doing so with Max, talking it all through afterward, would be the best. She loved their discussions.

But much more of her excitement, she knew, was about what was happening between her and Max.

It didn’t matter that he’d tried to deny it. It didn’t matter that he’d insisted on putting distance between them. She’d seen the longing in his hungry stare, felt it in the care he’d taken of her, secretly witnessed the powerful release of his sexual need in the shower.

She wasn’t a siren, had never, ever thought of herself that way before, but right now, goddess above, she felt like one.

Max was bringing out a primal sexuality that had long lain dormant inside her. And it felt so freakin’ empowering.

As she shook out her hair, noting the gleam in her eyes, the flush along her cheekbones, Charlie had to smile.

She had no idea how it was going to pan out between them, but no way was she going to give up on the bond between her and Max without fighting for it.

Because it felt like it was fated somehow, this chemistry between them. Had done from the moment Max opened the front door to her. Even more so since his wolf had saved her on Saturday night.

She got why Max was confused by it. Disturbed, even.

She just wished he had as much faith in his wolf as she did.

All Sunday she’d kept out of his way, mostly reading in her room. That night, she’d met Simone and Gina for dinner, though she kept what had happened firmly to herself. Even when they mentioned the scratch on her cheek, she passed it off as someone on the dance floor at Tod’s party flinging out a hand. She’d promised Max she wouldn’t tell anyone, and besides, it felt like something no one else could possibly understand anyway.

When she got back to the house, she’d walked in to find the snug door ajar (maybe on purpose?) and her desk and chair set up in there. She’d refused to let it get to her.

If Max was determined to put distance between them, so be it. He was going to be slower to process this than her, clearly. After all, she’d been in love with him for a fair while now.

Gosh! Charlie stopped midway between doing up the buttons on her blouse.

Were these feelings she had for Max love?

Her heart thudded its agreement.

Yep, she was going to admit it to her reflection. She was falling madly in love with Max Hunt. What was the point in pretending otherwise?

Was he falling in love with her too?

She dared to hope so.

Charlie tied her hair up in a bun, smoothed down the stray curls and pinned them. She was aiming to look ultra professional and sophisticated today for their meeting at Motham Palace. At least on the surface. What was underneath her suit was somewhat less so, but she guessed only she knew that.

But she wondered if Max might just scent it.

In his study, dressed impeccably in a pinstriped charcoal suit and crisp light gray shirt, Max fiddled around with his notebooks and tried to organize his thoughts. He should be excited at seeing Athelrose’s handwritten dairies—and many other texts of the period, too, eyewitness accounts of those early months and years of Motham City.

He should be focused on his book. The problem was, Charlie was taking up valuable real estate in his head.

All yesterday he’d busied himself, first by moving her desk and chair into the snug, then wishing he hadn’t. Changing the bedding so he wouldn’t smell her on it, then holding the sheets to his face and delighting in her scent before shoving them in the washing machine. Next, he’d gone and wandered around Old Motham, trying to get in the mood for writing. But he could only get in the mood for more of Charlie, his X-rated thoughts tightening his fly. In desperation, he considered visiting his pack as a diversion, but rejected the idea and instead fantasized about going to find the ferals that had hurt Charlie and beating the crap out of them.

At that point he decided he was fucking losing it. He came home and drank whisky alone in his study until he was drunk enough to sleep.

And although he was nursing a slight hangover, today he was determined to put it all behind him.

Or there would be no book to send to his agent.

When Charlie walked in, he sighed with relief to see how professionally she was turned out. Her hair was pulled tight into a bun, not a single curl escaping from its confines. But when he saw the line of that scratch under her make-up, his heart yet again tugged protectively.

Shut that down.

He shaped his lips into a polite smile. She returned it. All good.

“What shall I bring?” she asked.

“Your laptop to record things on, if you’re okay with that. I have a notebook. I don’t believe they allow photos.”

“Well, if they do, we have our phones.” She put on her coat, and he forced himself not to help her, even though good manners ensured he held the door for her.

“It’s colder than I thought,” she said. “Can you wait a sec?” She ran back inside, and he stood on the doorstep, stamping his feet, blowing on his hands. When she came back, she had a brightly striped knitted hat on her head with a big bobble on top. She looked totally adorable, and he noticed that in the act of pulling it onto her head she’d freed a couple of ebony curls, which now poked out the sides.

It occurred to him that, like her personality, Charlie’s hair was irrepressible.

As they walked down the street, Max focused on his surroundings to keep from focusing on Charlie. The grand Malibar stone residences with their neat gardens, gravel drives, and fountains spoke of another time, a genteel, peaceful period after Athelrose had helped the monsters regroup and heal their differences.

“It’s so pretty around here,” Charlie observed after a moment. “I love this early Motham architecture.”

Max felt his shoulders relax. This was a safe topic, discussing history. “They borrowed from all kinds of species to make these houses spectacular. A little bit of Rococo vampire in the mix added elegance.” He pointed to the balcony of one mansion. “And see over there, you can clearly detect Mothfolk artisans at work in the delicate filigree patterns. The pillars are very much the grand designs of griffins. Orcs generally did the builds, that’s why these houses have stood the test of time. Orcs don’t have great artistic flair, but what they lack in elegance they make up for in damn solid workmanship.”

“What about werewolves?” she asked. “Is their influence in any of these houses?”

“Werewolves preferred caves or dwellings that were lower to the ground. The places they did build were torn down after the mutiny.” Max steeled himself. He didn’t enjoy discussing his ancestors’ dark past. “It was devastating for Athelrose that his second in command rose up against him, and I daresay he wanted no reminders of wolves around the city.”

“That uprising was led by Colonel Oliver Felcin, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. The Dark Traitor, as he was known. After the mutiny was quashed, the Felcin pack escaped, tunneling under the wall one moonless night, and made it to the mountains. There, they pit their wits, guerilla-style, against ogre tribes, gaining advantages at full moon. But yes, Felcin’s betrayal reflected badly on the other packs, who were herded to the Wastelands by angry supporters of Athelrose.”

“Did the Felcin pack die out?”

“Not completely. Some of them are still out in the high mountains, believed to be fighting off ogres.”

“And the Hunts, were they part of the uprising?”

“My understanding is they were not. They managed to hold their own, snouts just above the ground, so to speak. Eking out a living on the edges of the Wastelands. Not honorable folks, I’m afraid to say, but not ferals, or mutineers, at least.”

“They’ve come a long way since then,” Charlie said brightly.

Max’s lips tightened. “Maybe.” He didn’t want to get into a discussion about the damn ruts again. He saw with relief that they’d reached the gates of the palace. They sparkled in the wintery sunshine, shaped like huge moth wings. Beautiful to behold.

“Oh look,” Charlie exclaimed, “the Christmas tree is up, ready for the pageant.” She ran over to the gates and pressed her nose through the golden bars, like a kid gazing into the window of a candy shop. The palace did indeed look amazing, with its sparkling white facade, and the grand entrance decked with sprigs of holly, fir leaves, and sparkling baubles. A gigantic Christmas tree stood in front of it, strewn with streamers and colored lights.

But for once, the grandeur of it all did not hold his attention. All Max could do was gaze at Charlie. She was a whirlwind of contradictions. One moment the serious history buff, the next full of vivacity and fun. And try as he might, he felt himself becoming addicted to all of her. Luckily, he was distracted by the appearance of a tall thin man scurrying toward them on long legs from a side door of the palace. He had all the hallmarks of a mothman, pale and fine-boned, and as he got closer, Max could clearly see small gauzy winglets at the shoulders of his neat gray suit. It was said that all palace employees had some link to the original Motham family, so he was probably a distant relative.

He smiled and waved a slender hand as he got closer. “Welcome, Professor Hunt. We are so honored to have you visit us here.” He opened the smaller gate next to the main one and with a little bow, ushered them both inside. “I am the curator, Edwin Bloom.”

Charlie did a full turn around in the driveway, her eyes huge. “It’s even more beautiful once you get inside.”

Edwin looked at her benignly. “It is indeed. Did you not visit for the pageant last Christmas?”

She shook her head. “No, sadly the date coincided with a family gathering.”

“We will be opening the palace grounds again this year, on Christmas Eve. Perhaps you could bring your lady friend?” He looked at Max, who swiftly interjected, “Miss Sullivan here is my research assistant.”

Edwin gave a little smirk. “Ah, my mistake,” he said. “We Mothfolk are prone to flights of romantic fantasy.” He cleared his throat. “Back to business. First, for some housekeeping.” He brought two name tags out of his pocket on ribbons. “Here are your passes.”

“May we look around the gardens first?” Charlie asked. It was clear she could hardly wait, her feet fidgeting to go exploring.

“Of course. With the Motham family not being in residence at present, I can be more relaxed about showing you around,” Edwin said, leading the way.

They followed him, their feet crunching on the gravel drive, past a liveried guard, a broad-shouldered centaur who saluted them. Edwin led them through topiary gardens, past a maze and ponds full of giant koi fish.

Max watched Charlie as she stood staring at the fountain. She laughed with delight when water suddenly spouted out of a nymph’s mouth. “It must be so amazing in summer,” she sighed as she rejoined them and smiled up at Edwin.

She was obviously charming the mothman, who seemed totally enchanted by her.

Max felt an unpleasant jarring sensation in his belly.

Good gods, man, you can’t be jealous of a skinny little mothman . But the way Charlie listened, her head tilted, asking him myriad questions, the way she laughed when Edwin came out with a little quirk of Mothfolk humor, irritated him to the core.

He tried to hide his scowl behind a rather inane smile. Finally, he could take no more of Charlie and Edwin’s easy chat and interjected, “I don’t want to be a spoilsport, but time is precious, and we have a lot to see.”

“Of course.” Edwin inclined his head. “I’ll take you down to the archives.”

As they turned back toward the palace, Max trudged behind Charlie and Edwin, listening to Charlie ecstatically exclaiming about the palace grounds, followed by the mothman’s laughter.

Right now, Max felt for all the world like the Christmas grinch.