It had seemed an undeserved honor to put the male in the best guest room—even if Throe was none the wiser.
“Throe,” Abalone said sharply. “A word if I may.”
When there was no answer, he rapped on the closed panels with his knuckles—
The door opened of its own volition, revealing a dimly lit interior. He was about to lean in when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder and held him back.
“Allow my brother,” Phury said gently. “You do not know what you will find.”
Z walked in with a gun down by his thigh. A moment later, after those heavy footfalls traveled around the room, he said, “Clear.”
Abalone rushed forth. Indeed, the room was vacated—the bed had even been made. There was no sign that anyone had been there.
Except for the slightly open window across the way.
Verily, one of the multi-paned panels with their steel mesh overlays had been cracked and left ajar.
“He was not a prisoner here,” Abalone said as he went over and reclosed the thing. “Why escape?”
“The more important question,” Phury said, “was how can we be sure he’s actually gone? This is a big house. Lots of hiding places—”
“Maybe this will explain things.” Z went over to the desk in the corner and held up a sealed envelope. “It’s got your name on it.”
The Brother brought the thing over and handed it to Abalone.
With shaking hands, Abalone opened the back flap and took out the single sheet of paper that had been folded twice. The stationery was his own, with an engraving of a line drawing of the house at the top:
Dearest Abalone, son of Abalone,
Forgive me for not relating my thanks to you in person. Your hospitality has been much appreciated and very generous. In recognition of the difficult position my presence must undoubtedly place upon you, I am going to seek refuge with another.
I very much anticipate our paths crossing once again, cousin mine.
Until then, thank you once more for opening your home to me, and until then, I remain,
Your Blooded Relation,
Throe
“What does it say?” Phury asked.
As the automatic shutters began to come down for the day, Abalone handed the letter over. “Nothing of consequence. I agree. I need to search the house, but I fear that shall take too long for you to safely return to your compound.”
“Then we’ll stay the day with you,” Phury said as his eyes traveled over the script. “But until we know you and your staff are all right? We’re going nowhere.”
Abalone exhaled. “Blessed am I for your presence.”
Z laughed tightly. “You think we want to go back and tell Wrath you got your throat slit because we didn’t do our job? Not the kind of report I want to make to the King.”
Phury gave the letter back and put his hand on Abalone’s shoulder once again. “And let us do the dirty work—it’s safer for everyone that way. Where’s your bedroom?”
“Down that way.”
“Come on, we’ll take you there and then get your staff secured. After that, we’re going to fine-tooth-comb this house until we know there’s nothing but that letter left behind.”
Abalone found himself nodding. “Thank you, sires. Thank you so very much.”
“I am most pleased that you called upon me. And I am sorry that I kept you waiting.”
Throe smiled at the female addressing him and indicated the comfortable sofa he’d been sitting on since he arrived on her property. “It has been no hardship. I’ve been warm and dry. Already, you have been as gracious as any hostess could possibly be.”
The aristocratic female smiled, flashing teeth that were as white as the diamonds at her throat. Her wrists. Upon her fingers and earlobes. Standing just inside the modest caretaker’s residence on her huge estate, she looked like a model who’d walked into the wrong photoshoot.
“My mate is unwell,” she said gravely. “I had to attend to him.”
Dressed as she was in a skintight leopard-print cocktail dress, one had to wonder exactly what kind of needs her elderly hellren had.
Hardly the sort of thing a shellan would wear to tuck an older gentlemale into bed.
More likely, Throe thought, she had dressed to meet him.
“Yes, I recall he was ailing,” he said smoothly. “I’m very sorry.”
“It grieves me so.”
“How could it not.”
“I shall be a widow soon.”
As he nodded in solemn sympathy, he deliberately allowed his eyes to drift down from her black straight hair to her dainty feet.
The last time he’d seen her, it had been here, but there had been far fewer clothes involved—for both of them, as well as his fellow Bastards. She had been lying before the hearth, and he and the soldiers had swarmed over her naked flesh, feeding, fucking. That had been about a month ago, only the most recent of the sessions that had been ongoing for the previous year at regular intervals.