Rhys called Malachi as soon as he closed the door. Before his friend could even say hello, Rhys blasted him with the question that had been plaguing him for days. “Why are women so completely bloody maddening?”

Malachi paused. “So I’m guessing you’ve come across some roadblocks in the mission.”

“The mission is going fine, but this woman.” Rhys had to pause and take a deep breath. “The arrogance, Malachi. The stubborn arrogance.”

“Well, that seems completely foreign; I can’t imagine having to deal with a person like that.”

“Shut up and listen, you git.” He took a deep breath. “I think she’s my reshon.”

Malachi was silent for a few moment. “Well… I’d say congratulations, but you don’t sound very pleased about it. Is she a complete nightmare?”

“She’s bloody perfect!”

“I thought you said she was arrogant, stubborn, and maddening.”

“She is.”

“And she’s… perfect.” Malachi laughed a little. “Okay. Fine then. Um… should I get Ava for this?”

“You’re my best friend; you have to listen to me.” Rhys sat on the edge of the bed and put his head in his hand. “She’s the heir of Anamitra, Mal.”

“You mentioned that suspicion. You’re sure now?”

“Yes. And she’s brilliant. She’s powerful. Honorable. She cares deeply, even though I can tell it hurts her. She’s… unflinching.”

“She sounds like an incredible woman. How do you know she’s your reshon?”

“I asked her. There was a confrontation tonight. Long story, but she reached for me. She’d been using some very powerful magic on Grigori and her shields were down. After… when it got to be too much, she pressed her head to my hand and—”

“You made the voices go away,” Malachi said softly. “Yes, we can do that for them.”

Rhys swallowed the lump in his throat. “I used to think fate was rubbish. What did it mean to us, after all, when most of our chosen mates were probably dead? Who should count on a reshon when she was probably killed during the Rending? It was a mad hope for a lucky few. Our mission was more important than finding happiness for ourselves.”

“Happiness is important too,” Malachi said. “If we’re too weary to see joy, then we lose our sense of purpose. Everyone needs something to fight for.”

“When I see her, I see my purpose.” Rhys swallowed hard. “Finally I see it. All the places I’ve wandered. All the useless trails I’ve followed. They’ve all been leading to her. And she…”

“She’s fighting it.”

“Yes.”

“Does she trust you?”

“No.” He thought. “Some. More than at the beginning.”

“That means she’s cautious. There’s nothing wrong with that; she has reason to be. Have you made your desires known?”

“Yes.”

“Is she not attracted to you?”

Rhys scoffed, thinking about their kiss in the library. “That’s not the problem.”

“Is there anyone else?”

“I don’t think so. She’s dated human men in New Orleans.”

“Humans,” Malachi scoffed. “Ava did that too. They never last long; human men can’t handle Irina.”

Rhys rose and ran a hand through his hair. “I thought most singers want a reshon like scribes do.”

“From what you’ve said, she doesn’t sound like most singers.”

“She’s not.”

Meera was the heir of Anamitra, heir of heaven’s wisdom. The repository of Irina memory on earth. Raised by her elders. Taken from her parents as soon as her magic was made evident. Nothing about Meera’s life had been normal. Everything had been prescribed…

“Everything was decided for her,” Rhys murmured. “Where she lived. Whom she spent time with. What she ate and drank. Everyone around her is in her retinue.”

“A very dutiful life,” Malachi said softly. “She must value what little independence she has achieved.”

“Yes.” Rhys closed his eyes. “She doesn’t want a mate chosen by her parents. She doesn’t want a mate chosen by heaven either.”

“No, I expect not.”

“What do I do, brother?”

“If she were not your reshon, would you still want her?”

He’d wanted her almost from the moment he met her. He’d just been annoyed at the idea. “She is everything I want, even if I didn’t know it before.”

Malachi said, “That’s beautiful, Rhys.”

He squeezed his eyes closed. “Shut up and give me advice, Malachi.”

“Okay, let me think.” There was a silence on the line. “She’s like you, isn’t she?”

“What does that mean?”

“She’s arrogant, impressed by her own intelligence, and likely to think her opinion is superior to everyone else’s?”

“Well… yes.”

“And she’s a language geek as well?”

Rhys rolled his eyes. “What does that word even mean? It’s a derogatory term for eighteenth-century circus performers.”

“I’m going to assume that means she is.” Malachi cleared his throat. “Excellent. Then all you need to do to convince her that you two belong together is to show her why falling in love with you is the most logical, sane, and productive path. If you show her that, continue to build trust, and practice patience, this will all work out. She needs to think this is her idea. Her choice. Not just another thing pushed on her from outside her own will. Persuade her, Rhys. Respectfully.”

“I don’t want to persuade her. And I don’t want logical, sane, and patient,” Rhys growled. “I want to rip her clothes off and run away with her.”

“I’m just following my instincts here, but I wouldn’t lead with that.”

* * *

Rhys hung up the phone after fifteen more minutes of Malachi explaining to him why patience was a virtue. He was mostly convinced until he smelled Meera’s scent on his shirt from earlier in the evening and his arousal raged again.

What was wrong with him? He was acting like a scribe barely out of the academy.

She’s your reshon.

Everything in him pushed to go to her, find her, and make sure she was safe and protected. Logically he knew her own magic was formidable and she didn’t need him to protect her. That didn’t seem to matter.

Someone knocked on the door.

Meera.

Rhys opened it a second later. “Hello.”

“I came to apologize for being self-centered.”

He frowned. “That wasn’t why I was mad. You have every reason to look out for yourself.”

Two lines formed between her eyebrows. “Then I don’t understand why you’re so angry with me.”

“I’m angry with you because…” He glanced behind her and saw two humans walking their direction. “Come inside. Please.”

She did, and Rhys closed the door behind her.

The hotel was clean but not luxurious. He took a seat on the foot of the bed, allowing Meera to sit in the single available chair by the small table.

“I would appreciate a straight answer,” he said. “Am I your reshon?”

She was silent.

“Understand,” he continued, “I do not take anything for granted. I don’t believe that entitles me to your affection or that it means our mating is inevitable. But each of us only has a single reshon in our lives, and I think I have a right to know if—”

“Yes.” She said it simply with a deliberately blank expression on her face.

Rhys couldn’t breathe for a moment.

Yes.

Reshon.

There you are.

Once his heart started again, he nodded. “Thank you for telling me.”

“I didn’t want to tell you in that field,” she said quietly. “Not right after we’d killed three men.”

“That makes complete sense.”

“I didn’t want to tell you at all,” she said. “Not until I knew what I wanted to do with the knowledge.”

“It is not all about you,” he said through gritted teeth.

“I disagree.” She folded her hands on her lap. “It’s not my job to guard your interests. It’s my job to guard my own.” Her expression was solemn. “You’ve already said you want me. I assumed that you would consider it an opportunity.”

“An opportunity?”

“Yes, for leverage.”

“Leverage for what?”

“To secure me as a mate.”

“To secure…” Rhys forced himself to remain calm. “A mate isn’t something you secure, Meera.”

She was silent.

“You really haven’t spent much time around normal people, have you?”

“Define normal.”

“Fair point.” Rhys took a deep breath. “Do your parents love you?”

“Yes.” Her expression softened. “I’ve always known that.”

“And you love them?”

“Obviously.”

“You’re a woman with power and influence. Do they use your love to gain advantages? To secure anything?”

“No. They’re my parents.”

“And I am your reshon.” He tried not to trip over the words. I am your reshon. He wanted to shout it. Wanted to whisper it against her lips. Wanted to write the words on her skin.

Patience.

He could tell she was discomfited by the words, but he said them again. “I am your reshon, Meera. I don’t consider that an opportunity. I consider it a gift.”

He couldn’t interpret her expression. Surprise, maybe? The surprise angered him, but it also made him want to kiss her. He slid from the bed to kneel before her, taking her soft cheeks in his hands. His thumbs brushed across the flawless copper skin, and he stared at her lips, a deep pink fuller on the bottom than the top.

“I spend a lot of time thinking about your mouth,” he murmured.

“It’s just a mouth.”

He angled his head and licked across her lower lip. “It’s a delicious mouth.” He bit her bottom lip softly, then drew back until she leaned forward.

Their lips met with no haste. Rhys eased into her kiss, tasting a hint of orange and vanilla as he drew the moment out.

Reshon.

His heart sang it, but he forced himself to be cautious, building Meera to a simmer until her arms went around his neck and her fingers played with the hair at his nape. She slid her hand into the back of his shirt, stroking soft fingers along his spine and tracing the raised talesm inked across his shoulders. He was drunk on her touch.

He scooted forward, easing his hands along her hips until he cupped her backside in his palms. She was round and soft and he loved it. Her bottom filled his hands, and a sigh came from her throat when he squeezed and pulled her closer. Her legs parted and she pressed herself against him.

Rhys groaned at the sweet ache. He could smell a hint of sweat on her skin. He released her mouth and kissed down her neck, tasting the salt and sucking on the soft skin. He ran his teeth along her collarbone, sliding his tongue into the soft dip at the base of her neck.

She was a feast. Teasing his neck and shoulders. Playing her fingers in his hair. Her thighs pressed against his hips.

The kiss turned from luxurious to heated. He could feel her pulse, rapid beneath her skin. Her fingers gripped his hair as something inside Meera unfurled. He could sense her magic reaching out to touch his.

He slid his fingers along the inside of her thigh. “Let me touch you.”

She drew back, desire and caution battling in her eyes.

“Okay,” he said, “not yet.”

“I didn’t say no.”

Rhys smiled. “Yes, you did.”

Meera frowned. “It’s not… I want you.”

“And I want you.” He captured her mouth again, teasing her tongue until she softened under his hands, but he didn’t press for more.

Patience.

“You don’t trust me enough. Not yet,” he whispered in her ear before he drew back. “We have time. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Yes, you are,” she whispered back. “You’re going into the Atchafalaya Basin tomorrow. Roch got the boat this afternoon. But I am going with you.” Her eyes sparkled. “Are you as excited as I am?”

“To find a source of lost Irina martial magic? Yes.”

“And record a nearly extinct language.”

Rhys smiled. “Malachi was right. You are such a geek.”

“I still don’t understand how a word originally used for eighteenth-century German circus performers came to be used for learning enthusiasts.”

Heaven above, he adored her.

* * *

Rhys walked Meera back to her room, kissing her good night before he turned and saw Roch trying to disappear into a wall.

He cleared his throat. “My room is past hers, so…”

“Fine.”

“Good.” Roch nodded. “So you two…”

“Don’t have any interest in discussing it.”

“Fair enough.”

Both men stood in the narrow hallway, nodding silently.

“Did you call Maarut?” Rhys asked. “About the Grigori?”

“Yes. He’s going to check with his contacts about any unexplained disappearances, and he’ll also get in formal contact with the New Orleans house.”

“Good.”

“Is Meera going to share what kind of magic she used on them?”

“That’s up to her.”

“She’s like a damn Grigori magnet, isn’t she? All that power. She keeps a tight rein on it, but when she lets it shine out…”

“Yes, I’m sure they’re drawn to her.” Heaven above, everyone was drawn to her. Humans, Irin, Grigori. Meera could probably have songbirds circling her like a cartoon princess if she wanted them.

“She spends a lot of time at the haven,” Roch said.

“And?”

His expression was solemn. “They’re drawn to her. You telling me they haven’t been drawn to her this whole time? Why haven’t they come to the haven?”

“The wards are powerful.”

“So powerful they’re not even attracted to the borders?” He shrugged. “Maybe. And maybe something else was keeping them away.”

“What?”

“I don’t know.” Roch tapped his fingers against his leg. “It’s worth thinking on. But what she did in the forest tonight… I’ve never seen anything like that. Have you?”

Rhys shook his head.

“That’s why her parents let her live in New Orleans by herself, isn’t it? Because they knew about… whatever that was.”

“You’d have to ask them.”

“Right,” Roch said. “But you knew.”

Rhys took a breath. “Whatever Meera has shared with me, she’s done for her own reasons or out of necessity. I would not consider it an insult that she is cautious sharing things with you. She has cause to be private.”

“True.” Roch glanced at Meera’s door. “I care about her.”

“As do I.”

“Yeah, I know you do.”

Rhys truly hated feeling transparent. He hooked his thumbs in his belt loops. “What time tomorrow?”

“Early. I’m starting to feel like this is a wild-goose chase. I don’t want to be stuck in that bayou any longer than necessary if something’s coming for the haven. I’d like to be out of Lafayette by six in the morning.”

“I’ll set my alarm.” He started back to his room.

“More are coming.” Roch said. “That was the feeling I got from the Grigori today.”

Rhys turned back to Roch. “I think Bozidar is getting reckless. Or brave. Maybe he knows about Meera and maybe he doesn’t. But things are quiet in New Orleans—all that rich tourist traffic and hardly any Grigori. He probably sees an opportunity.”

“That’s what I told Maarut.”

“Which makes finding the Wolf all the more important, don’t you think?”

“Leave it to me, Englishman,” Roch said. “I’ll get you through the swamp. If you’re lucky, you might even come out with all your fingers and toes.”

* * *

He walked through the damp field, the breeze rustling the cane in the moonlight. The rough ground made him stumble, and the smell of sugar filled the air. He heard someone in the distance, walking behind him, but when he turned and walked back, they had moved farther away.

Always at a distance. Always behind. He turned in every direction, but none led him toward the distant follower.

“Matsah mashul.”

The whisper came from beyond the fields. It drifted in the wind, and he spun in full circle, hoping to find the source.

Matsah mashul.

“Find the path.”

He searched for a path, but there was none. In the distance he heard the splash of a fountain, a cooing dove, and a child’s laughter echoing off stone.

“Matsah mashul, reshon.”