Chapter 22
Unfortunately, the trolls arrived before she even got her greedy hands on that tight ass of his.
Hells, she’d barely slipped her fingertips under the hem of Hugh’s cashmere sweater when Kip and Lorrie burst out of Max’s cozy library, yelling so loudly that Gwen and Hugh involuntarily jerked in surprise and headbutted each other.
Hugh was lucky she didn’t accidentally bite off his hot, agile tongue. As was she, because that tongue seemed very promising.
“Gwendolen!” Kip bellowed, barreling down the hall. “It is I, Kipworth the Brave, combatant for your hand and rightful recipient of your love! Also the rightful recipient of your leftovers, should you have any available!”
“We come bearing gifts!” Lorrie shouted next. “And should you choose to reward our Herculean labors with gourmet French cuisine, we shall gladly accept!”
“I wanted pupusas,” Kip complained.
Lorrie didn’t waver. “Suck it up, bro. Pupusas are for winners, and you got your nuts kicked into your throat by a mini-demon with a tiny, hot ass.”
“Sorry,” Hugh murmured, and pressed a sweet kiss to the sore spot on Gwen’s forehead before easing out from underneath her on the couch. “I asked them to bring us a few things, and apparently they’re done shopping. But…Gwen?”
She still lay sprawled and needy on the sofa, still too lust dazed to easily adjust to her sudden change of fortunes.
At least until Kip, now rummaging through the refrigerator, loudly demanded water from artesian aquifers as recompense for his wounded pride and battered balls—whereupon she hastily sat up and tugged at her pajama top until it lay flat again.
“Yes?” she asked breathlessly.
Each word quiet and deliberate, Hugh told her, “The next time we have privacy and a soft surface, I want your thighs wrapped around my neck.”
It was the horniest thing a male had ever uttered in her presence, spoken by a demon with literal horns. Very fitting. Also very heartening.
“What a strange coincidence.” She grinned at him, all her disappointed aggrievement shifting to anticipation. “I want that too.”
“Excellent,” he said, and went to greet the trolls.
—
Sorting through all the items the trolls had brought took a long time.
There was an anti-nausea amulet on a sturdy leather cord, which Gwen immediately and gratefully slipped over her head.
A healing spell contained within a decorative pomander.
An extra outfit for Hugh. Fuzzy socks, slip-on shoes, boots, and several changes of soft, warm clothing for Gwen.
Hugh sat beside her on the couch and watched as she riffled happily through the packages. “Anything else you might need, simply text to Lorrie. She and Kip will bring it to you as soon as possible.”
“Thank you so, so much.” Gwen set down a deliciously fleecy pair of sweatpants. “I don’t suppose I could—”
“No.” He frowned at her. “I don’t want reimbursement.”
Under other circumstances, she’d wrangle with him over that peremptory statement, but she honestly had no idea how much the witchwork and garments might have cost—not to mention the endless bottles of vitamins he’d apparently ordered. She doubted she could pay him back, in all honesty.
So instead of arguing, she simply smiled at him. “Thank you, Hugh.”
He glanced toward the kitchen, where the trolls had momentarily paused an increasingly vicious battle over a banh mi sandwich to spy on the couch dwellers.
Then toward the home’s short hallway, where Max was just now emerging from his bedroom, no doubt motivated by abject fear for the continued safety of his cabinetry, and was eyeing all his guests askance.
Staid, reserved Councilor Hugh Blacke, Esquire, simply shrugged, leaned forward, and planted a brief, soft kiss on her lips. “You’re more than welcome. Honey-bunny.”
When she stuck her tongue out at him, he actually winked at her.
His phone dinged. Once, then again.
When he glanced at its screen, his smile faded. “It seems I’ve been summoned to SERC headquarters for questioning, as predicted.”
“Can you ask them to wait for morning?” She clasped her hands together to stop them from shaking. “Or refuse to go?”
Would they simply ask him for a more detailed statement? Or did they intend to arrest their colleague despite the circumstantial nature of the evidence against him?
“Unfortunately, no.” Hugh rose to his feet. “Any attempt at avoidance would only increase their suspicions.”
“Blacke is right,” Max called over his shoulder as he forcibly separated the squabbling trolls. “Much as it pains me to admit that.”
When Gwen stood too, the exhaustion from a very difficult day left her knees wobbly. “You’ll be careful? And call me with an update as soon as you can?”
Assuming you’re not using your lone allowed phone call on a criminal lawyer instead, she very carefully didn’t say.
His arms opened, and she flung herself into them.
“I’ll be careful.” He nuzzled her crown with his bearded chin, then planted a kiss there. “Aren’t I always?”
“Well…” Gwen thought back to the fight with Kip. “Not really?”
His huff of amusement ruffled her hair. “I blame any recent misbehavior on the trolls. They’re a terrible influence.”
“Thanks, bro!” Lorrie called out from the kitchen, where she was now devouring an herbed leg of lamb with tzatziki sauce. “We try!”
One more tender squeeze and one last, soft kiss on Gwen’s mouth later, Hugh exited into Max’s library elevator.
Unable to maintain any pretense of good cheer in his absence, Gwen chatted with the trolls and Max for only a few minutes before leaving to take a shower and her long-awaited nap.
Only to lie awake for over an hour on the library couch, worrying about what might be happening to Hugh at that very moment.
Listening for the distinctive rattle and thunk of the elevator in motion, which would indicate his return.
Then she slept, emotionally and physically exhausted. And thank goodness, she woke hours later to the pleasant scent of smoke and the sight of Hugh’s shadowed face as he bent toward her for a sweet, short kiss.
“You’re here,” she sleepily mumbled, and struggled to sit up. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” His strong arm around her back helped ease her upright. “And yes, I am definitely here. In the too, too solid flesh.”
“What?” Her nose crinkled as her muddled brain struggled to process his words. “Why would you want to be a liquid? Or a gas?”
“There’s also the plasma state, don’t forget. And that was a Shakespeare reference. Hamlet.” He paused. “I realize that I’m not helping my cause, should I wish to contradict the trolls’ opinion of me as a pretentious bore.”
“Probably not.” Relieved beyond words that he was back, un-imprisoned, and able to participate in displays of unprovoked pedantry, she heaved herself into his open arms. “Oh, gods and goddesses, I’m so glad you’re okay.”
His hand clasped her nape warmly, urging her face against his neck as his chin nestled into its usual spot on her crown. “I can feel that.”
She squeezed him fiercely. “What happened?”
“The council questioned me.” His body had tensed slightly. “There’s no direct proof that I set my own apartment on fire, so unless new evidence comes to light, I’ll face no charges.”
From the extreme neutrality of his tone, she had to assume that his description of events was leaving out a lot, and she wanted to hear the whole truth. Not a sanitized Kidz Bop version thereof.
“I repeat.” She raised her head far enough to meet his eyes. “What happened, Hugh?”
With a sigh, he switched on a table lamp. “I was hoping to spare you the details. Not because I don’t trust you,” he quickly specified, “but because you’re already grappling with too many worries at the moment. I have no desire to add more.”
Squinting against the glare of the lamp, she simply waited.
Resigned to defeat, he sat beside her on the sofa, gathered her back into his arms, and described the barely veiled glee of some of his colleagues, the ones who resented his strict adherence to the Council’s rules.
The open agitation of his mentor, Josiah.
Beech’s eventual call for a vote and pronouncement of the unanimous—if reluctant, in some cases—verdict: Hugh was free to go.
The SERC chair had also officially granted Hugh an indefinite leave of absence to deal with the tangled mess of his previously pristine life.
No part of that explanation seemed to bother Hugh much. So why was he so tense?
“Did something else happen?” Gwen tried to sort through the possibilities. “Did you get bad news from Thora, or…?”
All at once, the stiff scaffolding of his posture seemed to collapse, and he sagged into her embrace. “My mother and father waylaid me after the meeting.”
“I imagine they were…” Total assholes? Terrible parents? So shallow I could barely dip a toe in them? “Concerned.”
He ducked his head to rest it lightly against her shoulder. “Not so much concerned. More…displeased. Alarmed. Angry.”
“At you?” Now she was the one vibrating with tension. Protectively, she cupped her hand over the back of his skull and glared at the gilded mirror over the fireplace. “Because you’ve done nothing wrong, and if they don’t see that, they’re the disappointments. Not you.”
Scooting back against the sofa’s support, she silently urged him to rest his body more fully against hers. With a sigh, he let her bear some of his weight. Leaned into her, his angular frame cushioned by her softness.
His voice low and quiet, he recounted that conversation too.
Not all of it, she suspected, but enough.
He described his parents’ utter shock at his unprecedented scandal.
Their agitation at the prospect of lost clients and lost social standing.
Their anger at his refusal to redeem the Blacke family’s reputation by casting Gwen aside.
At that part of the story, she had to interrupt. “Hugh, listen. If it would make things easier on you, I can keep my distance while you continue your investigation.”