Riven Nightspire had seen wars. He'd seen betrayals. He'd seen political collapses that rewrote maps. He had never seen two Alpha wolves track a bouncing light with the synchronized intensity of house cats watching a laser pointer.
But before that his eyes were glued on Serena because she was glowing green. It was weaving into the gold that Dexmon was giving her, reaching places that the gold couldn't reach on its own.
Then his gaze shifted to the source. Gavriel Sterling.
The Gamma of Drakenfell. The man whose magical signature Maelor had been annotating in a journal that was threatening to become a manuscript. Sitting in a chair at the foot of the bed, glowing emerald from head to boots, pouring Fae magic into the Crown Prince's mate. His magic was a self-appointed, self-dispatched, self-righteous son of a bitch that took orders from nobody and produced results anyway.
Nightspire's mouth opened.
Closed.
Opened again.
