Chapter 22 Torin #2
“It depends on your needs, Mr Ashford.”
The way she says my name sends an unwanted shiver down my spine. She’s smooth. Too alluring. I hate it.
I hate her.
How can she be so… cold? This unaffected by my presence?
If the bond has snapped into place for me, why does she look at me like I’m just another obligation on her schedule? Surely, she should recognise it?
Unless… she already knew. The conniving cunt is going to do to me what she’s done to Draven.
Oh, this is going to be a reckoning.
“My needs?” I lean forward, letting my gaze rake over her deliberately, a slow, mocking smile tugging at my mouth. “I’m in desperate need of your expertise, Maeve.”
Her jaw tightens, rage flickering in her eyes—one brief crack in that perfect mask.
Good.
I just know that taunting her is going to be my new favourite game.
“Well then,” she says coolly, “tell me what they are. I’m not a mind reader—and neither is my boss.”
She reaches for her pen and flips her notebook open.
She’s trying to hide something—anger, tension, maybe even fear—but I catch it anyway.
Too late, maelstrom, I saw it.
“No laptop?” I sneer. “What, too old-fashioned to keep up with the modern world?”
“Let’s not play this small talk game. You’re a client at this firm, and we’ve got a meeting to get through.”
Her tone is pure ice.
And that’s what gets under my skin—because our bond has just branded itself into me, and she still talks to me like I’m nothing more than a burden.
The bond thrums angrily under my skin, a furious, possessive need to claim her.
The cat purrs, and no matter how much I detest her—the claim is undeniable.
So, how the fuck can she look at me now and feel nothing?
I’ve always known she was cold. Always known she was detached from human emotions.
But this? This is a choice.
She’s decided I’m not worth the effort, and my body is furious that it cares.
Next time, I won’t give her the satisfaction of seeing me hesitate.
She might have won this exchange, but I’m not losing the war.
Maeve Quinn is never going to be good enough for me.
But, in the meantime, I’m going to enjoy cracking that composure. Seeing what she looks like when she can’t stay perfect.
“My needs, maelstrom, are none of your concern,” I say slowly, savouring the deliberate restraint in my tone. “Not yet.”
Her brows lift a fraction, but she says nothing. There’s no real reaction to my taunt, no flash of irritation.
So, I cross that tactic off my list, and I wait to see how she wants to guide us.
I’d wager she’s doing the same thing. The air between us is heavier now, charged and compressed. My breathing tightens, just slightly, and I know I’m not the only one feeling it.
She just hides it better.
Fucking bitch.
“I’ve… stumbled across an issue,” I continue at last, “that may put me in an inconvenient position if I don’t resolve it.”
Well, it won’t fuck me over, but she doesn’t need to know that I’m doing this for political gain.
“I see,” she says, her tone bland to the point of insult. “And what, precisely, would you require from us?”
How can my worthless creature find her intriguing? She’s so dry, so absorbed with herself.
He used to desire power, now… he’s panting after a bitch.
“Us?” I scoff, leaning back in my chair. “I arranged this meeting with Draven, since he’s actually competent. You’re just his newest distraction in heels.”
Her laugh is short and humourless. Her icy gaze flashing with some kind of emotion.
“I’m sure that’s true, Mr Ashford. Unfortunately for you, he decided I had far more experience with this specific case, so I should do your intake.”
“I’ve brought some files—”
“From the archives?” she cuts in immediately, the impatient witch.
I tilt my head, studying her. “And why would that concern you?”
“Hand them over,” she says, holding her hand out like the rude and pampered princess she is.
I snort, the sound sharply mocking. Her eyes narrow into slits.
I’m sure if looks could kill, she’d have to be uglier to make it work.
“Do you really think I’m stupid enough to bring sensitive material out of the Compound? And even if I was—did you think I’d trust you enough to bring it into your office, maelstrom?”
I have copies tucked in my briefcase for Draven to unscramble. I’m not stupid enough to steal them—or check them out—but that doesn’t mean I can’t copy the information.
Julian really was shit at his job. Maeve would never have allowed me to get away with that when she held the position.
“Or are you hoping I’d hand you leverage wrapped in a neat little bow?” I scoff at her. “I’m giving you no fucking help to keep this job.”
Her scent sharpens, irritation bleeding through the soothing honey and pink roses. The wrinkle of her nose tells me I’ve hit a nerve.
Fuck yes.
Her sweet scent has burned me—she deserves to feel an echo of my pain.
“I see. Well, what can you share about them, then? There’s not much I can do to help when you’re being this vague.”
“I can share,” I say, dragging the words out, “that the documents are written in a dead dialect even I can’t stomach wasting time on. Half incoherent rambling, half deliberate ciphering. A mess designed to keep idiots out and frustrate anyone with half a brain.”
She doesn’t look impressed. She never does. Her expression is so carefully carved from marble it makes my teeth ache.
Or that could be from resisting the urge to let my pantheral come out and bite her.
“And you believe yourself capable of untangling it?” she asks calmly.
The corner of my mouth twitches. “More capable than you. But, apparently, Westfall is the aforementioned, since he thinks you might actually be more than just a pretty ornament.”
Her pen stills on the page.
She looks up at me, her gaze cutting. “If you intend to waste my time with mockery and insults, Mr. Ashford, I will happily report back that you declined cooperation.”
“Report back,” I echo, smirking. “To who—Draven? You think he’ll drop me as a client because you cried about having hurt feelings? You overestimate your influence, maelstrom.”
She doesn’t flinch. Not even when I let my presence press harder into the room.
I want to see her break.
“You overestimate how much I care whether you approve of me,” she replies coolly. The dry tone hits harder and more painfully than an icicle should be able to.
My pantheral prowls beneath my skin, pleased by her confidence and enamoured with the way she refuses to bend.
I grit my teeth against the unwanted spark of interest it stirs within me.
He’s contaminating our bond. No—she is.
She should’ve broken by now. Or at least snapped.
Instead, she sits there like she’s daring me to try harder.
I lean forward, voice dropping, tone stripped of all pretence. “Here’s what we’ve got, Maeve. Random documents with information pieced together through Tribunal channels. Littered with languages nobody uses anymore and archaic symbols that don’t want to be read.”
Her face flushes, a hint of redness coating her cheeks.
“Someone has gone to great effort to bury their tracks,” I continue. “I don’t need your opinions. I don’t need you to speculate. I need you to figure it out without getting tangled into the politics.”
She rolls her eyes, jotting notes down onto her expensive paper. I wish they were random scribbles, but she’s somehow managing to devise a plan when I’ve given her nothing.
I sneer. “We all know you’re fucked when it comes to the political landscape, so let’s not cause problems for me, yeah?”
Not even a bite.
I’m wasting my fucking talents right now.
“You’re a means to an end—a tool for me to wield for my success, maelstrom. That’s the only worth you could ever have, so don’t go thinking you’re actually wanted here.”
Her breathing hitches, and her gaze drops down to her notebook. She doesn’t say anything. No bitchy comment, no snarky jab.
She writes as if I don’t exist. As if she’s not rattled or broken.
No, Maeve Quinn would never let such a commoner like me upset her.
She’s driving me fucking crazy.
Her scent doesn’t shift—not even a fraction—and I’m left blind to what’s happening beneath that icy exterior.
Anyone who tried touching her would be walking away with fucking chilblains.
That’s if they were permitted to walk away at all.
“If that’s all, Mr Ashford,” she says calmly, setting her pen down beside her notebook, “then you’ll receive your translations once you decide I’m competent enough to be trusted with the material.”
She pauses, eyes lifting to mine, her smile thin and lethal.
“But since I can see how impaired your brain function is, I’ll be kind enough to warn you,” her tone is vicious, and it fucking cuts, “tools are only useful when the wielder knows how to handle them.”
Her gaze flicks over me, cool and dismissive.
“You don’t strike me as particularly skilled.”
My jaw tightens. I force a smirk instead of snapping back—because snapping would be a victory I won’t hand her.
“Careful, maelstrom,” I reply lightly. “You’re not nearly as delicate as you like to pretend.”
Though my pantheral, the treacherous bastard, disagrees.
She tilts her head, and, for a moment, I swear, I see a flicker of interest in her eyes. She doesn’t take the bait, though. She just waits.
Of course, she does. The ice queen never rushes to speak. She lets other people unravel instead.
“I’ll be blunt, Maeve,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “You’re here because Westfall shoved you at me. I didn’t ask for you. And I don’t trust you with the full picture.”
I feel the flare of my pantheral pushing harder against my chest, hungry to see how she’ll react. Will she crack? Snap? Finally show something other than that cool detachment?
She doesn’t.
She just looks at me—steady, sharp-eyed—like I’m the one under evaluation.
Infuriating woman.
“Careful there, maelstrom. Keep staring at me like that, and when your icy tornado blows, you’ll be stuck looking like that forever.”
Her lips quirk up, sharp as glass. “If you’re cold, Mr. Ashford, I suggest you put on a coat.”
Fuck me.