Chapter 22 Torin #3
Here we are talking about being frozen, and yet the heat that burns through me at her words is hotter than lava.
“Now,” she continues, utterly unbothered, “the documents. What kind are we dealing with? I’ve worked in the archives before, so I have some first-hand knowledge.”
Reluctantly, I outline some of what I have. The nature of the texts. The age. The way they refuse to sit neatly in any known category.
Her interest sharpens—not excitement, not greed, but something deeper.
Understanding.
And I hate it.
I hate not knowing what she knows. Hate feeling like I’m missing a piece of the board while she quietly rearranges it.
But I’m certain of one thing: Maeve Quinn is already holding information I don’t have. And when it suits her, she’ll use it to screw me over.
“Your job is to figure out what’s nonsense, what’s dangerous, and what can be used,” I smirk, standing from my chair.
Her pen stills, but she doesn’t look up. That damn composure again.
Like nothing I’m saying—nothing I am—is enough to break her.
I lean closer, lowering my voice until it’s almost a growl. “Of course, you’ll probably miss half the meaning. I’ll get someone competent to double-check your work.”
I lean in just enough to let the threat settle. “Consider this a trial run, maelstrom.”
That finally earns me the smallest flicker in her scent—a sharp tang of irritation she’s desperate to smother. My pantheral purrs with satisfaction. I shouldn’t enjoy this, but I do.
I let the words hang heavy in the air, deliberately refusing to explain more.
What I don’t tell her is that every fragment ties back to rot at the heart of the Tribunal.
That this isn’t academic curiosity or something for me.
These aren’t just dusty relics—they’re treason dressed as language.
She doesn’t need to know that. Not yet. If she stumbles, if she fails, I’ll burn her with it. And if she succeeds?
Well. Then, I’ll decide whether she deserves to know what she’s really holding in her pretty little hands.
Her pretty little hands.
Fuck me.
I hate her for it.
I hate her for making me feel when all I want is control.
She glances up, finally, and, for a moment, her eyes meet mine, cool and steady as ever. She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t break. She just looks.
And the heat roaring through me burns hotter than hellfire.
Fucking icy bitch.
I turn away first, refusing to let her see it.
“Don’t disappoint me, Maeve,” I bite out. “Because if you do, I’ll enjoy watching you shatter.”
I know she’ll fail, but there’s nothing better than squishing bugs who act like they’re the ultimate snow queen.
“Ineed permission to stay in your pride for a bit.”
Atticus’s eyes narrow as I cross the room and help myself to his liquor. He doesn’t comment when I pour three fingers of his whiskey or when I toss my jacket over the back of the closest armchair like I own the place.
I’m not a man to be trifled with right now.
“And why would that be?” he asks mildly.
His tone might be even, but his ocean blue eyes are fucking dancing with mockery.
Fucking prick. He’s out to flex his shit in some forced protection gig from Adrian.
“Maeve Quinn.”
He doesn’t respond right away.
He waits, and I know what he’s waiting for, but I can’t admit it.
I don’t give it to him.
I won’t.
He’d have to beat the truth out of me, and even then, he’d have better luck prying classified Tribunal secrets loose than getting a confession about her.
Fucking maelstrom.
Maeve.
The girl my panther has settled on. My soulmate. My other half.
Just kill me now—it’ll be kinder.
“Oh, cousin.” Atticus sighs at last, pushing his chair back and letting his pen clatter onto the desk. “Not Maeve. Anyone but Maeve.”
My brow furrows. My pantheral bristles instantly, ready to challenge the alpha lion on her behalf for the perceived threat.
Fucking idiot.
On neutral ground, Atticus and I could have a decent fight. In his pride, where he’s king? I’d be dead.
Shut up. I hiss at my cat, locking our connection.
Somehow, the offended feelings still linger in a way I refuse to acknowledge. “Why do you say it like that?”
“Did you tell her that she’s your mate?” Atticus asks bluntly and without an ounce of tact.
I shake my head slowly.
Did I tell the woman who looks at me like I’m a problem to be managed that my pantheral decided she belongs to us?
I’d never degrade myself like that. She hates me, and while she’s managed to entrance my cat into believing she’s perfect, I know better.
We’re not ever going to bond. Never going to mate—I’d sooner cut my own cock off.
Whatever this is, it’s instinct, nothing more. A biological misfire triggered by her manipulation and proximity.
Once she’s served her purpose—once I’ve extracted what I need from her—I’ll sever our connection and move on with my life.
My pantheral snarls in protest, but I shut him back down. The sneaky cunt is managing to obliterate my mental block.
He doesn’t get a vote after saddling me with her—Miss Priss.
“No,” I say instead. “She didn’t seem to recognise anything, and I didn’t want to… upset her.”
Yes, perfect.
I can avoid sharing anything personal and pretend I care about the pampered princess.
Atticus leans forward and nods once. “That’s because she didn’t. Maeve’s a chromius shifter—not a regular chameleon or even mythical one. They don’t sense the bond the same way the other kinds do.”
I frown before smoothing my expression. Is that true? I’m not sure I can believe it.
“A chromius shifter—Maeve—finds their mate by touching bare skin and then shifting into their form.”
My heart races. Is that what the greedy bitch is after with this harem she’s forming?
Draven’s an ursarix, one of the most dangerous and protective bears in the world.
What an amazing bond to ensnare.
Lucifer, Julian, and Hadrian have strong bloodlines, impressive connections, and a variety of skills.
This fucking girl… how can nobody see the problem she is?
She shouldn’t be revered—she should be monitored. She’s too dangerous to be allowed this much freedom.
“Right,” I say when he stays silent.
That explanation explains so fucking much. It all makes sense now.
No wonder Adrian’s hoarding her to himself. A chromius shifter isn’t just rare—they’re strategic assets.
It explains the allure and magnetism that surrounds her. Explains how when you’re in her orbit, she controls the gravity. She can pull attention without trying.
Hell, it even explains the rumblings around her species. She’s not managed to hide it, but she doesn’t have something that can be identified.
I’d clocked her as powerful, but this… oh, she’s a tactical queen, all right.
I couldn’t even identify whether she was prey or predator, for fuck’s sake.
I should’ve suspected as much.
“Did she touch you?” Atticus asks.
I shake my head. My pantheral mourns the missed opportunity like a fool.
But I’m very grateful this leech couldn’t steal from me.
Ours, he insists.
Being ours means nothing. Not when she’s set out to be our destruction.
“Then next time I see her, I’ll secure myself a handshake. Easy fix,” I say coolly. She might detest touching the commoners in case it initiates a bond, but I don’t care.
I’ll touch her myself and get it over with.
He laughs, and the mocking sound is only cut off by my hiss.
“Hard for that to be the plan when your mate is afraid of touch.”
I narrow my eyes, but this time, it’s me who has the mocking laughter. “Maeve Quinn isn’t afraid of anything. Don’t believe her bullshit, Atticus. I thought you were smarter than that.”
I met the bitch, and she didn’t once falter or back down when I spoke. I’m not someone for the fainthearted, and if she can handle me, she’ll handle anything.
No—fear doesn’t live within her. She’s concocted a pretty story for the weak minds around her, but I’m not going to be fooled.
I feel Atticus’s dissatisfaction roll through the room, but he doesn’t voice it. He never does unless it serves a purpose.
No, the king didn’t get where he is by offering unsolicited warnings.
“Good luck, Torin,” he says finally. “You’re welcome to stay in the area for as long as you don’t cause problems.”
I smirk. “No guards? I thought that was a requirement on your lands. You’re not worried about my safety?”
“You’re rich enough to pay for your own.”
I laugh and swallow the whiskey burning a familiar path down my throat. I drop the glass onto his desk before leaving.
On my way out, I head back toward Maeve’s office—get turned around once, then twice—before someone finally points me in the right direction.
I don’t question why I’m going back.
I tell myself it’s logistics.
Control.
And nothing at all to do with the way my pantheral is pacing, restless and alert, like he’s already bracing for a storm.
I rap once on her door and push it open without waiting for permission to enter.
She’d refuse it out of spite if she knew it was me.
Maeve is standing behind her desk, exactly where I expected her to be. Her office mirrors Draven’s in layout—clean, functional, expensive—but her desk is taller, deliberately so. There’s no chair behind it.
Of course, this perfect fucking doll would rather stand all day in those man-killing shoes looking like the firm’s most expensive decoration rather than do something productive with her time.
“Why don’t you have a chair at your desk?” I demand, my irritation snapping sharp.
“Why are you here?” she fires back without missing a beat.
Fearful my fucking ass.
Instantaneous banter.
She has to know what she does to people—what she does to me.
Nobody moves through the world this precisely without understanding the damage they leave behind.
“I wanted to talk with you. Off the record.”
“I don’t do off-the-record talks with anyone,” she says, sneering at me. “Least of all arrogant men who think they can waltz into my office like they own the place.”
I’m halfway to telling her that ownership is a matter of perspective, and I’ve just been reminded that rules bend for men like me, when there’s a knock at the door.
Maeve doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t even glance at me before responding.
“Come in,” she says, effectively shattering whatever fragile bubble we were circling.
On the other side is an… imp. Fucking great.
I bet Draven sent him.
The energy registers immediately. Sharp, old, chaotic.
The bitter black cherry tangled with smokey ash burns my throat and stings my eyes.
Fucker.
The distinct metallic oxidised tang doesn’t help—bet he’s carved someone up before coming here to try and taunt me.
“Lucifer.” My words are flat, my pantheral bristling hard at his interruption.
“Torin.” He nods his head, his smile bright and open, as if we’re best fucking friends, before looking past me to Maeve. “Am I interrupting anything, princess?”
Of course, he talks to her like that. Of course, he thinks he has the right.
I shouldn’t be surprised. I’ve already seen the leash she has him on—the way she’s convinced him to bend to her pathetic will.
“No,” she says smoothly.
“Yes,” I snap at the exact same time.
Both of them look at me, and Lucifer’s grin widens, amusement gleaming sharp and bright.
I don’t know if he’s getting more enjoyment out of my anger or Maeve’s disdain.
Prick.
“I see,” he drawls, cracking his knuckles. “Well, Torin, Daddy D mentioned you were sniffing around the offices today. Thought I’d come say hello.”
“And you knew I’d be here?”
His gaze darkens. His scent sharpens.
He knows.
He fucking knows.
“Maybe once this one’s finished for the day—” he tips his chin toward Maeve casually, like it’s his right to do so “—I’ll stop by your place, and we can… chat.”
“Chat?” I echo, the word dripping with poison.
He shrugs, all mock-innocence. “Isn’t that what you professional politicians call it?”
The way he says it makes it sound less like chatting and more like fighting-until-one-of-us-is-bleeding-out-on-the-floor.
A promise of blood and broken bones dressed up as diplomacy.
Honestly, I’m tempted. More would get done if that were the case.
Plus, finding actual worthy opponents is getting harder and harder with the attention I now garner in the upper circles.
I arch a brow, and we both know exactly what’s happening here.
All three of us—if we include the lying mate we’ve both imprinted on.
And now, whether he likes it or not, I’m a complication.
Maeve’s silence stretches between us, sharp enough to cut. She doesn’t move to intervene or soothe.
I nod slowly, already deciding how this ends. “Careful, Imp. You’ll learn quickly that I don’t play games.”
Lucifer’s grin turns feral. “Good. I don’t either.”
The bond between the three of us hums like a live wire.
And just like that, the office is too small, the air too thick, Maeve caught between two predators circling each other with only one outcome on the horizon.
War.
I can’t fucking wait. I’ve always been good at taking what the world insists is mine.