The days she wasn’t at the lab, she mostly worked at a cafe a short walk from her apartment. She was predictable, so anyone who wanted to waylay her only had to watch her routine a couple days.

Petru took a seat at her small, outdoor table. Surah sighed, continued to sip her chai and type at her laptop, and hoped he’d go away if she ignored him.

He shut her lid.

Surah sat back in her chair, staring at him. “I could have had unsaved work.”

“Prince Geza gave us formal permission to wed. I am here to ask for your hand in marriage.”

She laughed. “You two are funny.” But on the inside she was uneasy. It wasn’t entirely unheard of to drag a gargoyle bride to the altar when politics and bloodlines and money were involved. Mostly the practice had lessened over decades of constant exposure to humans, but…it still happened.

The misogynistic fuckers. If she didn’t love Malin, and her brother, she’d let the Ioveanu bloodline die and take all its antiquated ideas with it. But that wouldn’t change the culture–only nudge things along the right path.

“I’m a good choice for you.”

He looked so serious as he said it, that she actually couldn’t help but ask him, “Why?”

“We grew up together.”

“Well, no, not really. And you were a jerk to me when I was a teenager.”

He shrugged. “Females who want to be warriors should expect to be challenged. I am already aware of the difficulties with your personality. Another warrior might just beat you out of frustration–as long as you’re available to me when I want, I will otherwise leave you alone.” He paused, expression thoughtful. “Despite what we all thought growing up–you haven’t embarrassed Geza. You work, your affairs are discreet. You haven’t gotten fat like human women do.”

Petru looked around the cafe, mild distaste flashing across his face. “I don’t understand how you can be around cattle all day long and not want to knife yourself in the evening. They can’t fly.”

She wanted to knife herself now. “I’m not going to marry you, Petru.” Surah gathered her things and rose. “And you know what? I’m going to go tell Malin on you and Geza for being mean to me.”

Petru’s eyes widened.

* * *

“Geza, did you sign a betrothal agreement?”

The pause on the other end of the connection had her heart thumping. “Not yet,” her brother said. “Look, Petru isn’t a bad choice. He’s so obtuse most of your insults would bounce off his thick skin. I wouldn’t have to listen to complaints about your behavior all the time.”

She leaned her head against the brick. She’d walked a block and tapped her wrist unit, unable to wait even another ten minutes to get to her lab. “Geza, I don’t want—”

“It doesn’t matter. You can’t run around single. Eventually someone will kidnap you in order to use you as leverage against me–everyone seems to think I like you. So you’ll be forced into a marriage–or just used as a rival’s whore–whether you like it or not. Unless you have someone else in mind?”

“No. And you do like me–you just don’t like that I’m smarter than you.” This wasn’t the time to mention Malin. That subject would have to be broached with care–the political ramifications would be interesting since she was, technically, Geza’s heir. Until he had children, she occupied a unique position at court. Petru was right. She wasn’t an Ioveanu, but she was still considered an Ioveanu princess.

“I’ll talk to you later,” she said, and disconnected, then called Malin.

He answered on the second ring. “Surah?”

“We need to talk. And promise you won’t get mad. I’ll be there in an hour.” She glanced over as movement alerted her. Petru approached on foot, shades over his eyes.

“I want to say one more thing to convince you to do this willingly,” he said.

Surah wanted to tear her hair out. “I don’t want to talk to you anymore. I’ve got to go.” He was in front of her now, backing her against the brick wall. “What are you doing? You can’t be serious.”

His head lowered, hands on either side of her head. “I’m handsome. You won’t suffer in bed with me. I’ve fucked enough cows to know how to please you.”

“Are you not even worried about how incredibly speciest you are? So now I’m a cow?”

He looked confused. “Of course not. You’re an Ioveanu-“

“I’m still half-human. Mooooo.”

He kissed her. Was it supposed to be a demonstration of how good they would be together? She felt nothing except exasperation, a growing indignation because whether they’d known each other for years or not, this was still sexual assault, and distaste. She didn’t want any lips on hers but Malin’s.

She placed her hands flat on his chest, grimacing from the contact, and shoved, adding a hook around his ankle for good measure. They both went tumbling to the ground, and grappled, a short, scuffle before he broke away and got to his feet. She slapped his hand away and leaped up, glaring.

“What did you do that for?” Petru growled. “I could have hurt you. You’d never win a fight with me. You’re not even—”

She was no longer amused. Well, she hadn’t been amused in the first place. “Go, Petru, before I take up my family’s sword.”

He looked shocked. He probably thought she was crazy to say she’d start a clan feud over something so trivial. No gargoyle raised warrior would use those words lightly.

Face tight, he bowed. “I suppose it won’t be willingly then.”

She watched him walk down the street and disappear around a corner, then went to Malin.

* * *

Surah hadn’t quite calculated Malin’s fury. She’d weighed the odds he would be upset, considering the territorial nature of gargoyles—especially warriors—and the pride of Ioveanu’s in general. So she’d figured he’d be ready to go and give Geza a tongue lashing, but—

“Wait a minute, Malin,” Surah said, alarmed, grabbing his arm as he stormed out of the room. “I didn’t tell you this so you can start a feud between Petru’s family and the Ioveanu’s!”

He stopped and turned, snarling. “It’s an insult. How dare he? I will teach him to lay hands on a female that-”

She pinched the bridge of her nose, releasing him. “What’s your secretary’s name?”

He was thrown out of his anger, confused. “What?”

“Your secretary? What’s her name?”

“Rebecca. But why—”

Surah approached his desk and pressed the labeled button.

“Yes, Mr. Ioveanu?”

“Rebecca, this is Surah. Can you make lunch reservations for Malin and I?”

“Of course. What time would you like?”

Surah appreciated that the woman didn’t ask to speak to Malin first. But his staff were becoming more and more familiar with her—and likely had an inkling that their relationship was strictly familial.

“One is great, thanks. Just message Malin the info. Oh, and send maintenance up, right? There was a rather large accident up here–some furniture is broken. There’s glass all over, too, so tell them to be careful.”

“So,” he said, watching her. She wasn’t fooled by his mild tone at all. “You expect me to do nothing, say nothing?”

When he reached out a hand to brush her cheek, she sucked in her breath. “I want you to not cause an incident in court. I still have to go there every day–you’re hidden here in the city.”

He slid an arm around her waist, pulling her against him. The hardness of his chest, the hardness of his eyes, was a warning not to take this male for granted. He might be safe for her–but he wasn’t safe.

Malin lowered his head. “Tell me, Surah,” he murmured against her lips, “are my balls in a beaker on your desk?”

She gaped. He took advantage, deepening the kiss even as his hold on her tightened, his other hand dipping under her shirt and resting on her ribcage, just under the curve of her breast. He pulled away moments later, after all rational thought had fled her head.

“Don’t unleash me if you don’t want to deal with the consequences,” he said. “I held myself back when you were my foster sister. Now you’re my woman.”

“And what does that mean?” she demanded. “That I can’t tell you if something bothers me because you’re irrational?”

“It means that I have the right to kill a male for touching you without my leave. And not even Geza would stop me.”

She took him to lunch, and talked him down to the cool, self-possessed, and reasonable businessman she needed him to be—and thought hard about ever trying to use his anger as a weapon again. She’d thought Geza had inherited all the crazy in the Ioveanu line–now she knew she was wrong. Malin just hid his batshit better.

* * *

Malin was aware of Surah’s ill-concealed attempts to pacify him. He allowed it because she had important work to do and did not need to worry about his anger on top of her own concerns. So he smoothed his expression, suppressed his anger, and spent an hour exerting himself to charm her. He’d never overtly played any role other than step-brother before, so that she was allowing him to be Malin, the man, to her only increased his determination to ensure nothing interfered.

Geza would not take her from him, and Petru certainly would not. He could scheme for status to increase his family’s honor somewhere else. So he soothed his intended, while she thought she was soothing him, and after she’d left the restaurant to go on about her business, Malin made a call, and set up a second meeting.

* * *

The rooftop of his building was an ideal location. After he’d made his first half-billion, he’d had a designer come in and recreate the gardens of his childhood. There were stone walking paths, and small water features. A grassy area for landing and a pergola for protection from the sun during the day.

As soon as the enemy orb disappeared from the sky and the blessed relief of the moon emerged, Malin stepped onto the rooftop and waited. He didn’t wait long.

Petru landed, three other males of his family with him–all warriors Malin recognized.

“You summoned me,” Petru said, his voice chilly. “I responded out of respect for my Prince.”

They’d never gotten along. Malin was the better warrior–before the disease crippled him, he could fly faster, too—and because he lacked Petru’s brashness, when they were young the former had mistaken Malin’s mild manner for weakness. Malin had publicly, thoroughly, taught him the reality of things. Petru never forgot.

“I’m not concerned with why you responded,” Malin said. “You are here.”

More wings descended from the sky. Kausar and Nikolau, males who were loyal to him. And not weak, but among the best warriors their hold had. Petru eyed them both and said nothing.

“I suppose you want to talk about Surah,” Petru said.

“No,” Malin replied, voice pleasant. “I don’t. Talk is superfluous, when a sound thrashing will do. It’s been some years, right?”

Petru grinned, and flexed his massive shoulders. Malin stared, unimpressed. He wasn’t a female–he didn’t care about Petru’s overblown muscles.

“You are not her brother,” Petru said, “so you have no rights over her. Geza is her guardian.”

“She doesn’t need a guardian, and I have the rights she has granted me.”

“And what rights would those be?”

Malin ignored the question. “You are not going to wed her, Petru. You’re far too stupid, you would diminish her offspring. I admit you are the best choice among the warriors available in court–but she is already spoken for. Tell Geza I said so.”

“And who has spoken?” Petru cracked his knuckles. Always one for theatrics. “I remember no announcements. She wears no male’s jewelry.”

“I have spoken.”

The words fell between them, Petru’s grin vanishing. “That’s impossible. You’re—”

“Not related at all.” Malin’s teeth ground. He was tired of reminding people of that fact.

“I was going to say defective,” Petru said, look withering. “Fine. We fight, then.”

Nikolau, who’d been silent until then, stepped forward, voice sharp. “First blood, not death. We don’t kill each other over a female.” He glanced at Malin, eyes warning. “Any female.”

“Agreed,” Malin said, and Petru echoed, and launched into the sky.

Malin had expected that tactic. His wings unfurled with a snap and he was in the air, jaw locked against the pain, his internal clock now ticking. He knew he had a certain amount of time before his body would begin to fail him. No amount of strength training, conditioning or swordwork could combat the disease. He looked the picture of a warrior in his prime–but it was only a picture. Another year, two at the most, and he would be fully human.

So he reveled in this fight and not just because of his anger over Petru’s presumption. But because now, in the sky with the moon brilliant overhead, locked in combat with another warrior, he felt alive. Himself.

No one would draw a blade–that would ensure that a small, civilized fight to the blood over the right to court a female would turn into something more deadly. They wrestled in the air, Petru a slippery fucker. Faster than Malin remembered–he must have spent the years training, rather than sitting around getting fat like Geza.

Fangs snapped in his face, a fist like stone smashing against his cheekbone. He snapped his head back in time to avoid the blow connecting with his nose—and drawing first blood. Flapping backward, he tumbled towards the roof, mimicking the appearance of disorientation, as if he was about to crumble mid-flight. Petru dove, a fierce grin on his face. Malin turned up at the last moment and swiped left, his claws raking rivulets along leathery wings. Petru howled in rage and broke away.

Malin landed on his feet, carefully folding his wings to disguise the tremble and stood, still. The others landed one by one, seeing the main fight was over.

“This isn’t over,” Petru snapped, then heaved himself into the air.

Malin watched, grim but satisfied. It would buy him a few weeks before Petru decided he’d left Surah alone long enough.

“You almost didn’t make it at the end,” Kausar said, voice quiet.

Malin glanced over. Nikolau was staring at him, face impassive. “I didn’t know it was that bad,” the male said. “The others don’t know what you are really like in flight–they wouldn’t notice. I do.” Niko paused. “Can she really cure you?”

“She believes she can.”

“Then she deserves to be yours, human blood or not. But make her cure you.”